Batman: Green Dawn
by Scruffy-looking
Summary: A few months after Batman Begins, the Dark Knight must battle a beautiful and deadly menance: Poison Ivy! An Ivy origin story set in the Begins universe.
1. Chapter 1

**Batman: Green Dawn**

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_As Batman continues his newborn crusade, not only must he battle crime on the streets, Bruce Wayne must also handle the demands of his dual life while maintaining the trust of those few he calls friends. But most of all, he must confront a lethal new menace wreaking havoc on a struggling Gotham City. Fighting enemies both old and new on both sides of the law, he will discover that at the heart of the calamity is an adversary as beautiful as she is deadly…_

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**Introduction**  
Hello Batman and Poison Ivy fans! The goal of this fanfic is simple: to write a compelling story featuring Poison Ivy set within the continuity of the new _Batman Begins_ film. With the successful relaunch of the Batman movie franchise, naturally Batman fans wonder who will be the next villains in future movies. Unfortunately, I think it is unlikely we will see Poison Ivy, except as a minor bad girl. And that wouldn't do justice to the character—Poison Ivy deserves to take center stage! If we won't be able to see Ivy on the big screen, what's the next best solution? Why, fanfiction of course!

This story is being written to fit continuity of the ongoing _Batman Begins_ storyline, both for the first film and likely future sequels as well. You can think of it as an appetizer as we await the second film. Realism is the primary consideration in the new series, and in that spirit I have tried to create an Ivy that reflects this while still remaining true to her past depictions. Thanks again for reading!

**Special Note**  
For new readers, this story was actually completed a while ago, and it was originally rated M, which I have found means it does not turn up in the normal Fanfiction search. Realizing that Batman in the movies is a PG-13 story, and because I want to attract a broader audience, I have modified the original story so that it fits under the T rating. Rest assured, the content is almost exactly the same; if you're interested in the changes, the last two chapters of this story are Author's Notes and Commentary, which will explain some of the changes made. Besides, as new readers you'll get the entire story all at once!

For my previous readers, I have corrected many minor spelling and grammar mistakes, and more importantly added a new final chapter, which should have been included earlier. I promise, it'll be worth your while to read!

**UPDATE #2****:  
**8/21/08 - I have added a new Postscript which discusses the story in the context of the new film _The Dark Knight._ There is also a short excerpt from a soon-to-come fanfic where Poison Ivy will be involved!

**WARNING**  
In this fanfic Poison Ivy is a very seductive and violent character (especially the latter), so despite the changes younger readers should exercise discretion in reading.

**Disclaimer**  
Batman™ is the intellectual property of Warner Brothers and DC Comics, and is used here for noncommercial purposes only.

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**Part One: Twilight's End  
Chapter 1**

**

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**_Gasping for air, he ran, his heavy steps raising up knee-high splashes that echoed through the narrow backalleys crowded with refuse and debris._

_Passing by a large dumpster, he suddenly dropped down to crouch behind it, quickly looking up into the night. Squinting, he saw nothing but raindrops, but he knew better—that _thing _was up there__…__  
…__nearby__…  
…__watching…_

_He began running again._

_Ahead of him, something fell to the ground—not water! Panicked, he scrambled into yet another alley, barely wide enough for him to squeeze into. Reflexively he crouched down, covering his head with the dirty poncho he had stolen from some drunk he killed a few days ago. He fought to control his breathing, willing his knees to stop shaking. _

_Amid the ceaseless raindrops, he thought he heard something pass overhead—he dared not look. _

_A minute passed, then five, then ten. The dreaded attack from above never came. As gingerly as a man his size could, he crept out into the main alley, then cautiously peaked his head around a corner. A few blocks in the distance, he could see the dark winding silhouette of the Eastern River, and beyond that, the shining towers of midtown. _

_Fear instantly gave way to joy. After weeks of hiding and running from the cops and from__… it__… __he was about to escape this hellhole. Many of the others had been recaptured, but he had remained free all this time. Now, a short trip across the river was all that was needed to make his escape.  
_

_Grinning ferally, he pulled out a long steel pipe. The hunted was now once again the hunter._

_

* * *

_  
Cursing, Hasan had no choice but to stop the car. He was thoroughly lost.

**We Deliver Anywhere in Gotham! **That was the slogan of Ralph's Pizzeria, which Hasan was a deliveryman for, and because they really meant it, Hasan was making a midnight delivery run into the worst part of the city. Tonight he had delivered his dozen pizzas to a nondescript building deep in the center of the island. The dark-suited man who took delivery said nothing as he paid, but unlike others in this rundown neighborhood he didn't seem scared or even depressed about being there, which said much of the likely reason for his presence. But that was neither here nor there for him—what was his problem was trying to get back to the 12th Street Bridge. The waterfront was in plain view, but he was stuck trying to navigate a maze of one way streets, many of which were blocked off. Some had potholes so big they couldn't be traversed, and virtually all the street signs were missing.

He was more frustrated than scared; Gotham was a tough town, but it wasn't much worse than his native Kashmir, not even if you counted the recent mayhem. Stepping out into the cold rain, he squinted, searching in all directions. The intersection he was at was deserted, with only a flickering traffic light providing illumination. He knew where the exit road to the main thoroughfare circling the Narrows was, but he needed to find another way to get there. Finally, he saw it: a sign that pointed to another road that led to the thoroughfare. Smoothly he ducked back in and started the engine.

He shook his head to shake off the water when suddenly broken glass showered him from his right. Something had smashed the right window of his car, and before he could react a large arm had reached in and unlocked the door. Fumbling to remove his seatbelts the right front door flew open and a huge figure surged inside.

Panic filled Hasan as his assailant began to pummel him, shock waves of pain surging everywhere as a fist crushed against his ear and metal struck his head. Instinctively he shielded his face and throat, but the blows continued raining down on him. He felt himself spinning in midair, then landed with a thud on his side on the wet pavement. Now the man began kicking him in the groin and stomach, and darkness flooded his vision.

* * *

_Laughing, he gave the deliveryman another kick to the face, then sat down and began driving away. He had not traveled a block when suddenly bright lights exploded in front of him. The car shuddered and began spinning out of control. Frantic, he slammed on the breaks and just managed to keep the car from flipping over. It was then that he saw it: a huge dark shape, horns sticking out of his head, with wings trailing from behind. _

_There was no time for fear—summoning all his rage and hate, he pulled out his pipe and swung. His first swing cut through air as the man sidestepped. Something like a bag of bricks smashed into his face; no stranger to physical punishment, the blow actually staggered him, but he quickly recovered and turned about. Shaking his head, he looked around to get a fix on his opponent._

_A sharp wave of pain shot up his left leg as a kick crushed his kneecap from the side. Now he did fall to the ground, arms flailing about. He saw the figure above him, glistening black against the midnight sky._

_Cursing, he struggled to get up as a continuous rain of kicks and punches struck him. His head snapped left, right; and then there was nothing._

_

* * *

_  
Silently, Batman stared down at the mammoth still form of Luis Varone, nearly half a foot taller than him, short cropped hair and pitted skin, his massive arms covered in tattoos. A serial mugger and suspected murderer, he was one of the last of the inmates who had escaped Arkham still at large. He bent down and cuffed him, then headed back to where the driver was still lying on the street. The driver, a small but stocky man of Middle East background, was badly beaten and moaning, but fortunately still conscious. He went back to the car, but couldn't operate the radio inside—it was broken. Grimacing, he took out a tiny two-way radio from his belt.

Running away from the crime scene, he spoke quickly: "This is an emergency, there's a carjacking victim at Larson and 17th Street in the Upper Narrows. I need an ambulance sent—"

"This is a police line, who the hell are you?" came an exasperated voice.

He couldn't help but smile. "A friend. Send a medic and the police, there's something here you might want back."

There was a pause on the other side. _About time they started figuring it out. _"I see. All right, we'll get a dispatch there. For the last time you are ordered—"

The radio went dead. "I don't take your orders," he said to the silence around him. With a sweep of his cape he disappeared back into the shadows.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

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**

A light but steady downpour, dying remnants from the previous night's thunderstorm, greeted the citizens of Gotham City as they awoke to another end of the work week. There was no hint of sun from the dull grey sky, only an absence of darkness which barely illuminated the wet streets and provided no motivation to go to work. For the most part, however, the need to make a living outweighed any temptation to slip back under the covers.

Life in Gotham is that of a fish in the ocean: forever keep swimming forward, or sink.

By seven in the morning downtown traffic was already at a standstill, and tempers were rising fast. Congestion spread like a virus from the Wayne Tower district and its still-crippled roadways out in all directions, until even those in the highest towers and penthouses could hear the cacophony of honking cars far below. Taxi and truck driver, suburban commuter and limo-driven captains of industry, all were equal in the logjam. Yet amid the cacophony of car horns, music, talk-radio chatter and insults being hurled in a dozen tongues, a solitary figure managed to bob and weave through the stalled columns of Uptown Gotham.

"Move your damn ass!" screamed a portly cabdriver named Sal. Sticking his head back in, he let loose another stream of curses and pounded the wheel in frustration. It wouldn't be long before the last of the railway commuters would arrive and he would miss out on being able to pick them up. Waiting for what seemed like hours, the car ahead finally moved, but just as he began accelerating, someone--a cyclist!--suddenly cut in front of him. He barely avoided hitting him before stopping.

"You sonofabitch!" Sal couldn't believe it; who in their right mind would be crazy enough to try and ride a bike in downtown Gotham at the height of rush-hour traffic? He was all of one mind to go after and run him off the road, but of course traffic had stopped again, and he had no choice but to sit and stew. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and glimmers of sunlight pierced down from above, while the lone cyclist had disappeared into the forest of vehicles ahead. Sal sat back and chuckled, thinking that at the rate he was going, he'd likely end up squashed.

The lone cyclist continued on with fearless--or perhaps reckless-determination, weaving through the stalled cars as if they weren't even there. More shouts and curses followed the cyclist, but they were all ignored as the rider single-mindedly continued on, pedaling furiously. Those in traffic who bothered to pay attention would see a very tall, thin figure with a large satchel backpack riding a battered old racing bike. Wearing a dirty white labcoat and faded blue jeans, a large black helmet hid the rider's face from view.

Slowly but steadily the cyclist cut a path through downtown Gotham, finally stopping in front of a large, plain building whose only adornment was a stark blue sign: Cataldi Pharmaceuticals. Pulling up around the block, the cyclist gracefully got off and locked the bike to a nearby lamppost, pulled off the helmet and walked into the building.

* * *

At Cataldi's main security entrance, one Martin Fuller sat at eager attention, constantly scanning the faces of crowd of people filing past, hardly bothering to check their identification—there was only one person he was waiting for in at the moment. At last he saw her, waiting at the end of the line. Quickly admitting those in front with a wave of his hand, he licked his lips, took a deep breath, then opened his mouth and spoke in the most confident assertive tone of voice he could muster: 

"Good morning, Doctor Isley. May I see your identification, please?" Without saying a word Pamela Isley impassively handed her ID card to him, a somewhat weary expression on her face. As always, she wore a faded grey Yale sweatshirt over her tie-dye T-shirt, while her lustrous dark red hair was tied up in a tomboyish ponytail and thick square plastic glasses sat askew on her long nose. Today, her long white labcoat was glistening wet from the rain and clung tightly to her upper torso (_Yes!_)

Smiling, he savored the view. From the moment she started working at Cataldi Pharmaceuticals less than a year ago, Martin knew every red-blooded male in the building from the midnight janitor to old Cataldi himself, spent many a night and day fantasizing about what Pamela _really_ looked like underneath her unflattering choice of wardrobe. No amount of dressing down could hide that to-die-for face of hers: long, elegant and unblemished, milky white skin, with killer blazing green eyes that haunted his dreams, staring at him, beckoning... Far from hiding her features, her shabby dress instead provoked ever-more fevered fantasizing.

Lost in his indulgence, he hardly noticed the look of impatience on her face as she tapped her foot, waiting. He was hardly the only one--many other men (and a few women) were doing the same, although none so blatantly. A loud clearing of her throat finally awoke him from his reverie.

"Did you have a good weekend, Doctor Isley?" Martin asked solicitously as he casually examined her bag, which was filled mainly with books.

"Nothing special," she replied laconically. _That voice! I could think of a hundred things I'd pay good money to hear her say!_ Struggling not to literally pant after her, he handed back the bag and gestured for her to step through the metal detector. As she did so, he pressed a button on his console, and the metal detector alarm went off.

"I'm sorry, Doctor Isley, will you please step aside." He didn't even bother to conceal his grin. Wordlessly, she walked over to the side and raised her arms in a well-practiced move. Martin came over and began doing a slow deliberate search with his handheld metal detector. Stepping behind her, he deeply inhaled to get as much of her scent as he could, passing the rod around the contours of her arms, her waist, her legs...

Finally, he had enough fresh sensations to last the rest of the day and motioned for her to move on. "Have a nice day," he called out behind her, watching her legs move, ignoring the protests (mostly female) from the growing backlog at his security station.

_Oh well, if I can't have her, at least I get to see her every day._ As the morning crowd dissipated, he went back to conjuring up another fantasy involving himself and the dear Doctor.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**

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**

Pamela Isley determinedly walked through the lobby towards the stairwell, passing by the elevators she had been forced to abandon less than a week after starting to work here, as always ignoring the stares and double takes of men she passed by. As she began her daily climb up to the seventh floor where her lab was, she slipped on a wet stair and tweaked her ankle, forcing her to pause. Sure enough, someone was soon at her side, a junior marketing executive.

"Hi Doctor Isley, TGIF eh? I was wondering, if you weren't busy—"

Ignoring the pain, she said quickly: "Sorry, other plans." He looked crestfallen, but thankfully didn't pursue her as she continued hobbling up the stairs. As she passed the fifth floor, a lab tech from Product Testing walked past her, stopped, and reversed direction.

"Pamela! Pamela, wait I wanted to ask you something—"

"—Can't talk now, very late for work." It was not yet nine. On the way up a few others accosted her; nerves fraying, she didn't even bother responding.

Finally she reached the seventh floor, but as she opened the door, a tall silver-haired man was blocking her way. "Good morning, my dear!" he said jovially.

"Good morning Dr. Lieberman," she said, no longer possessing the strength to resist yet another attempt to hit on her.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, he cleared his throat and said, "I was wondering, next month's genetics conference in Vienna, I have an extra ticket, and I'm sure you'd be interested in what's on the program. All you have to do—"

Uncharacteristically, she patted him on the cheek. Crimping her face into a twisted smile, she said: "That's very sweet, but I'm way behind and have to start burning the midnight oil. Maybe some other time." Stunned, he gazed at her, touching his cheek and mouthing wordlessly. Still straining to smile, she squeezed past him and walked inside. The lab she worked in consisted of half a dozen long benches parallel to each other, with each person working there crammed into a few feet of space. Walking past all the other researchers (a term which was at best peripherally accurate in describing many of the people there) turned to say hello, whistle, or just stare. Dropping the bag of books, she sat on a stool in front of her lab desk and immediately began to cough as a noxious stench of solvents, reagents and biochemical solutions filled her nostrils. Looking up, she inspected the ventilation hood over her desk, then started banging on it. The ventilation hood was running, but the fumes were not being sucked up as they should be.

"Aren't they ever going to fix this?" she muttered. _No_. Resignedly she began to clear space, gingerly trying not to bump into the people sitting adjacent to her with her long arms and legs. Her current set of experiments required a large quantity of agents that gave off hazardous fumes, but in this third-tier, ethically challenged company she worked at, lab safety protocols were laxly enforced, at best. _It's probably not normal to see lights popping off in your head every time you close your eyes, _she thought sardonically. But for the foreseeable future, she had no alternative.

As she examined her latest samples under a microscope, a creaky speaker blared out: "Dr. Isley, please report to Mr. Staughton's office immediately. Repeat, please report to Mr. Staughton immediately."

* * *

Jonathan Staughton took a careful whiff of the purple-tinted liquid in the flask he held, then let loose a relaxed sigh of relief. The tingling still filled him when from the furthest recess of his senses he heard a knock on the door. "Enter," he said lazily, and Pamela Isley stepped in. She stood in a lazy slouch, a blank expression on her face.

Delighted with himself and her presence, he said gaily: "Ah, Pamela, good to see you!"

"What do you want, sir?"

"Mmm, right to the point aren't we? I like that in a woman," he said lasciviously. "Ah, but business before pleasure. Yes, I've called you in because it's time to report on what you've been doing for the past few months. Could you refresh my memory?"

Nodding, she said: "I've been working on perfecting the mimetic coating for my encapsulated cell implants. There's still an issue with the adhesion between the two substrates--"

"English, please, dear!" He actually had a good idea of what she was doing and the potentially harmful repercussions, but he was taking every opportunity to keep her around.

Closing her eyes, she said slowly: "Many illnesses require regular treatment by medication--insulin for Type 1 diabetes, Factor 8 for hemophillia. Often they are the result of defective metabolism, so one potential means of a cure involves transplanting cells that can produce the necessary medications. The problem with transplants, of course, is immune system reactions, so I've been working on creating a compatible coating for these cells so the implants remain unharmed."

Drumming his fingers, Staughton decided to think about the implications. "I see. And how close are you to succeeding?"

"I've almost perfected the technique in vitro, so now the next step is FDA trials."

He laughed harshly. _Don't need to worry about things like that here, dear! _"So Pamela, what would happen if your project succeeded?"

There was a strangely happy expression on her face as she said: "It would represent a cure for many diseases which require lifelong treatments today. There would be many benefits for patients and for nature, by obviating the need to ransack the rainforests for new medical compounds—"

Shaking his head, he interrupted her: "Dear, dear, I'm afraid that's not what we want." _For someone so intelligent, she can really be stupid. _"You see, the pharmaceutical business runs on a simple premise: treatment over cures." He noted with amusement the look of shock on her oh-so-lovely face. _And really naive. _Smiling, he continued: "Why do you think no one does vaccine development except under government pressure? Far better to sell antibiotics, then 'allow' them to be misused, thereby requiring new ones as resistance grows!" The more he thought about her ridiculous ideas, the more he laughed. "A 'cure' for diabetes and hemophilia? Do you know what that would do to our insulin and Factor 8 businesses alone? You're going about this all the wrong way. I mean, look at AIDS, the perfect disease for us--requires a dozen drugs to be taken for a lifetime, and the virus mutates quickly, so new drugs are always required, which is great because those damn patent laws take away our exclusive rights to the drugs we make. That's the nature of the medical business, and you have to be on the same page as everyone else."

She seemed to tremble slightly, but otherwise made no other reaction. It was time to lay down the law: "I've made my decision—cease work on all your current projects, you are to be reassigned to Atlas development." He eyed the purple liquid fondly, and picked it up and held it in front of him. "This is where the real future of Cataldi lies—Atlas, the true cure for impotence! Next to this, Viagra might as well be a wet blanket!"

Pamela blanched. "Sir, you do realize that we've been forced to go back to the drawing boards with RTN-335A due to severe side effects like heart disorder, neural dysfunction—"

He stood up and smiled grandly. "Yes, but that's why we need top minds like yourself to work on!" His smile then abruptly vanished. "Or, if you don't agree, you are free to leave. I'm sure someone with your... sterling background can always find work elsewhere."

Pamela twitched, but said nothing. Smiling again, he continued: "Or if you really want to keep working on your little cells, well, perhaps you would be willing to persuade me over dinner and an evening out on the town with me. There may be the possibility that you could change my mind."

In a flat voice she replied: "No thank you, I'll move over to Atlas. If there's anything else?" He shook his head, and she left the office. Sitting down again, he took another whiff of Atlas and began thinking of what it would be like had Doctor Isley actually accepted his offer.

* * *

When the bell rang Pamela Isley couldn't leave any faster than she did. The rush of suitors was always greater and more insistent at the end of the workday, but she didn't even give the pretense of paying them heed—she had a much more important appointment to keep. Hopping on her bike, she began peddling furiously, weaving through traffic to the East End, and then to a large construction site overlooking the river entrance to the ocean. Several dozen protesters were marching around the front gate, holding up signs and chanting slogans. 

"No to Hayashi!"  
"Clean water Yes, dirty chips No!"  
"Save Gotham!"

Picking up a sign, she began marching and shouting as well, joining the other members of Gotham Greens as they protested the imminent opening of the Hayashi Electronics Chip Manufacturing Plant. At the front gates, a group of surly private guards stared sullenly back at them.

"Hey Pamela, glad you could make it," said Ari, a fresh faced college student who recently joined the Greens.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, they have to be stopped." She began shouting, "Hey Hey! Ho Ho! Hayashi's plant has got to go! Hey hey..."

"While we're here," Ari said behind her, "I was wondering, I need help with my biology class, I don't know, if you're free on Sunday—"

She ignored him, continuing to chant. Then she saw another member of the group talking to a reporter. "Well," Rajit stammered, "yes, this plant would provide needed jobs, but that's not the point—"

She ran to him and cut in: "—The point is, the environmental costs this factory far outweigh any benefits, which in any case are meager since all the key components are still being made in Japan, and they're only opening this plant to exploit Gotham's nonexistent worker and environmental laws!"

The reporter said: "Mister Hayashi disagrees, he was quoted this morning as saying, 'We will maintain the same level of environmental protection here as we do at our other plants around the world'—"

"He wasn't disagreeing, he was telling the truth, only you corporate sellouts don't know it!" Isley screeched. "Go to Malaysia or south China or Kenya, see what the air and water of those places are like! I'm telling you, one year from now the East River will be catching fire from all the crap they've spewed in!"

The reported copied everything down with a bored expression on his face. Looking up, he scrutinized her face, then smiled. "Okay, I've got enough for my story. Say, what's your name, love?"

She stormed off, furious. Nothing would change, and giving the creep her name would just add another person to the list of people hitting on her. As the sky faded to blackness, she and the other demonstrators continued their vigil.

* * *

"I'm telling you, protests are not enough—they're opening in a week, we need to take greater action!" Pamela looked on with disgust at the diffident reactions of the other Gotham Greens members sitting around her in the dusty old cafe. 

"What would you suggest, Pamela?" asked Linda, president of Gotham Greens. "Chain ourselves to the fences? Block the entryways with our bodies?"

She stammered, but could not offer a reply. Frustrated, she finally sat down.

"Exactly. Too many people in Gotham are ignorant of the global situation, they're too wrapped up in their own lives. I think we need to rededicate ourselves to education, only when people know the truth will they be ready to act."

Pamela scowled. "What if they already know the truth, and don't care? What then? How do we make them care?"

Lisa shook her head sadly. "If they don't care, nothing else matters. They'll only learn when it hits them in the face, and by then it will be too late." On that mordant note, the meeting was adjourned.

As Pamela got up to leave, several other members approached her, some offering support for her statements, but others mostly interested in asking her out. Normally she wasn't as brusque with her comrades in arms as she was at work, but tonight she was in no mood to even pretend to feign interest. Most of them quickly got the hint and got out of her way.

* * *

It was a long, lonely ride back to her seedy midtown apartment. Before going to bed, she carefully checked on the condition of the dozen plants she was growing in her place. _Plants may not be able to talk to you, but at least they never betray you. Nourish them, and they just grow. _Trimming here and there, extra nutrients for some, water for all, she adjusted the lights, and then finally went to bed. 

Sleep would not come, however, and not just because of the usual chemical-induced hallucinations that were a byproduct of Cataldi's sterling cleanliness. She had the unpleasant sense that events were spinning out of control, like they did back in grad school when she realized that her advisor and duplicitous lover, Doctor Jason Woodrue, was stealing her research. That had led to six months of hell where it was her against the entire university administration, desperate to protect their reputations, threatening to expel her if she didn't back down. After a lengthy negotiation, she finally managed to get her degree after all, but Woodrue and Cal Tech had then conspired to blackball her from every academic post in the country. To make matters worse, her lifelong history of participation in environmental groups and protests--a desire sparked from her own radical parents--meant that industry had done the same. Only in Gotham City, and only with the execrable Cataldi Pharmaceuticals, was she able to find work.

Now, it looked like she was going to be out of a job soon, while the poor battered environment of Gotham would soon take yet another blow, to say nothing of the progressive destruction of the world's natural environment. Why couldn't people see that they were destroying the very thing that kept them alive?

_They don't care._ It galled her terribly, because the stakes were so high. But for the life of her, she didn't know how to change things. That uncertainty was the last furious thought on her mind as she finally drifted off into sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

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**Outside a dank downtown club called Mallory's, a typical post-midnight Gotham business transaction was taking place.

Kneeling on the pavement among the back-alley garbage bins were five men bound and gagged, heads hanging low. Another man was similarly tied up, but standing. In front of him, a sharply dressed man wearing sunglasses was taking a long drag from a cigarette, while four wiseguys with pistols stood behind the others on the ground.

Finishing his cigarette, Rico walked up to the standing man and said softly, "So, that's the new arrangement for this part of town. You collect for us now, same rates as before, and all's well. Like nothing's changed. Whadda you say?"

Spitting on the ground in front of him, the bound man snarled, "Falcone's goin' cut off your fuc—"

_Poof!_ A brand new hole appeared in his throat as he slumped to the ground making a sickening gurgling sound. Blowing the smoke clear from the silencer-equipped pistol, he gestured to the wiseguys who roughly picked up one of the kneeling men, his eyes wide with terror.

Rico's expression was grim. "New deal: now, you give up an extra 10 percent. It's either that, or..." He pointed his pistol to the man's groin area. "Take it or leave it."

Trembling, the man suddenly looked upwards. Rico barely had time to do the same before something falling from the sky knocked them both down. He felt a might kick in the chest which sent him sprawling. The other wiseguys began firing wildly and chunks of pavement kicked up inches from Rico's face. Instantly he knew what was happening.

"It's the Batman, kill the bastard!" One of his men began firing blindly, and a bullet whistled past his head.

Scrambling to his feet cursing, he thought he saw and heard a bullet strike the Batman in the chest, but in an instant he was too close for them to fire. Among the gunmen, he kicked and punched, sending one, then two to the ground.

Preferring to fight another day, Rico turned and ran around the corner to where their car was parked. Frantically getting the vehicle in operation, he sped away just as the Batman appeared in his rear view mirror. But by then he was far ahead, and the Batman quickly diminished, then disappeared. Breathing heavily, Rico struggled to think of how to explain this debacle to the boss.

* * *

Furious beyond words at the sight of the dead hoodlum, Batman gave a savage kick to one of the gunmen who was not completely knocked out of action. In a fury, he picked up one of the bound men and removed his gag. 

"Hey man, thanks for saving my—" A brutal head butt silenced him.

"You're going to jail too," Batman gruffly said. Suddenly the others began trying to get up and escape, but Batman quickly incapacitated them as well. _No innocents here,_ he thought grimly. Off in the distance, he heard sirens rapidly approaching, so he fired his grappling gun and proceeded to make his escape.

* * *

"Just heard on the dispatch, they took everyone into custody," Lieutenant Gordon said. "Looks like you took a close one." 

"It's no problem," Batman replied, although he did take a step back. "Thank for the tip." The two of them were on the rooftop of a commercial building half a mile away, under a sky touched by a hint of approaching dawn.

"Tip? What tip?" Gordon chuckled mirthlessly. The former-Judge Faden had never authorized wiretaps in that section of town, but a few good cops had done it anyway, a desperate measure in their war against the Falcone Family. Now the war was turning, but they still hadn't received proper warrants, and what Gordon had heard yesterday was too tempting to not use.

"You sure Alberto wasn't there?"

Batman shook his head. "Must've heard something himself. Looked like a set up—one of Falcone's men, the guy who runs gambling operations out of that nightclub, was already dead when I got there. I took out the henchmen, but their leader escaped."

Gordon thought it over. "Guess we're not the only ones trying to bring down the rest of Falcone's empire."

Batman scowled. "Turf war."

"About all we can do is try and keep it from spilling out too much."

"Keep feeding me the info, and I'll do what I can."

Gordon smiled. "Keep saying that, and I will." Without a word Batman turned and ran off into the darkness. In the past few months since they formed their partnership, the Batman had proved an ever-increasingly useful ally, helping to break up criminal operations that the police were either unable or (unfortunately) still unwilling to stop. In public Commissioner Loeb continued to denounce 'masked vigilantes', but the less than diligent pursuit of the Caped Crusader ever since told Gordon all he needed about his true feelings.

Still, a gnawing sense of doubt lingered in the back of his head. However useful--even essential--Batman was, he was a rogue cannon, about whom Jim knew nothing. He decided not to poke around too hard, so as not to alienate his secret ally, but he couldn't discount the possibility that one day, perhaps, the Batman would go too far. _After all, a man who dresses up in a costume and runs around at night risking his life fighting crime hand to hand--something can't be right upstairs, can it? _He didn't have an answer.

Sighing, he began climbing down the stairwell to get to his car. _I hope it works out..._

* * *

"You're lucky I don't shoot messengers. Get out of here." Without another word, Rico bowed and fled the dark and crowded room. 

He leaned back in his seat and said nothing. Around the poker table, taciturn figures with hard looks on their faces stared back at him. The air was thick with smoke and tinged by the acrid smell of stale drinks. Finally, someone dared to break the brittle silence.

"Someone ratted us out."

He shook his head. "Impossible, my source was impeccable. He must've gotten cold feet. These days the Falcones are jumpy as all hell. Just bad luck."

One of the men fidgeted, loosening his tie as he said: "Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe it's too risky, taking them on now."

He shook his head decisively. "Now's the perfect time, the police are going hard after them, and the head of their Family is out of play indefinitely."

"It's true," said another, an ally of his. "I've heard he's completely lost it, that he's up in Arkham being fed with a spoon and wearing diapers!"

Everyone laughed at that image, though not without a bit of nervousness. Until recently, no sane man would laugh at Carmine Falcone, no matter where they were.

"It ain't true," someone else said. "I heard he's going to be released tomorrow." There was consternated motion by those at the table.

"Whatever happens, their whole operation is on the defensive," he said cuttingly. "Now is the time to strike, if we do this right, after the smoke clears we'll be on top running Gotham."

"And what about what Rico said? What about the Bat? Not only did he know about our hit, he was the guy who took down Falcone in the first place!"

He snorted. "'Batman', you're actually worried about this wacko? Who is he, some rogue undercover cop? Look, it's clear what this guy's doing, taking care of the police's dirty work." Shaking his head, he continued: "Yeah, he got Carmine, but the Roman got sloppy, never should have put himself in a position to get tied to his own job in the first place. And besides, for the time being the Bat is helping us as well. 'Enemy of my enemy' and all that." He leaned forward and pounded the table. "All the more reason we carry on as planned."

There were increasing murmurs of agreement. "So, do I have everyone's approval?" There was unanimous nods. "Good, then tonight was merely a setback, we continue on. Good day, gentlemen."

They all rose to their feet. "Good bye, Mister Thorne."

* * *

In Judge McKenna's chambers, Carmine Falcone babbled. 

He also screamed. And twitched. At irregular intervals on the TV screen, he would shake his head violently to and fro. Strapped into his chair, sometimes he would start laughing, cursing or weeping. His mutterings were indistinct.

Anthony Carazzano, Falcone's attorney, switched off the TV and said to the judge: "As you can see, Mr. Falcone's condition has not improved under the negligent treatment of the staff of Arkham Asylum and Gotham law enforcement. Your Honor, I ask that you grant us our motion to dismiss the charges against Mr. Falcone as he is not competent to stand trial."

Acting District Attorney Rachel Dawes did not react at all, merely saying: "Your Honor, Dr. Strange has carried out a complete physical and psychological exam of the defendant, and while in this video the defense counsel has provided the defendant may appear to be incompetent to stand trial, he is making progress towards recovery. It is the State's view that more time be allowed before making a decision with regards to his competency to stand trial."

Judge Jennifer McKenna, a stern, fair-haired woman, turned to Carazzano and said, "What does the defense have to say?"

Carazzano smiled and said, "I merely need restate the facts of the case: that under highly dubious circumstances--"

"Your Honor," Rachel angrily interrupted, "the details of the defendant's arrest are irrelevant at this hearing!"

Without batting an eye Carazzano continued: "--while under examination by the chief psychiatrist of Arkham Asylum my client was poisoned with a hallucinogenic compound which medical experts have testified can result in severe if not permanent brain damage. As Crane's replacement, even now we have concerns regarding Dr. Strange's background as well."

She retorted: "As you know, Your Honor, the medical experts retained by defense all work in hospitals owned by business associated with the Falcone family!"

This shut Carazzano up. Pausing, he continued: "Be that as it may, I believe we are making a very reasonable request. We agreed to have this evidentiary hearing behind closed doors so as not to taint any potential jurors, even though it is our right to have this evidence entered into public record. This recording speaks for itself--whatever may have happened before, my client is in no shape to stand trial for the foreseeable future."

Judge McKenna considered, then said: "Mr. Carazzano, at this time I do not have enough information one way or the other to agree to dismiss the case on competency grounds. Mr. Falcone will remain in the care of Arkham Asylum, and we will reconvene in three months time in order to further ascertain his mental state."

Frowning, Carazzano replied: "Very well, Your Honor, but I then ask that medical experts retained by the defense be allowed to monitor Mr. Falcone's condition at all times."

Judge McKenna said, "I am willing to agree to such terms if the State will agree?"

Dawes considered, then said: "We agree provided that appropriate security measures are taken with regards to any medical staff retained by defense."

"Objection, Your Honor--"

"Overruled. This meeting is adjourned."

As they stepped out of the judge's chamber, Rachel couldn't help but remark: "Mr. Carazzano, off the record, I'd be real careful with your defense strategy. Mr. Falcone's 'associates' would not appreciate being led by a mental cripple. Better check the background of those experts very carefully."

Smiling sweetly, he replied: "Off rhe record, Ms. Dawes, you're in way over your head. And my client had nothing to do with the activities on that dock, it was all a set up by Gotham Police's favorite-son, the Batman--"

"Batman didn't set him up, he caught Falcone redhanded," she replied, more vehemently than she wanted to.

"Let's see if you can prove it beyond a reasonable doubt. Good day, Ms. Dawes."

As Rachel watched him turn a corner and disappear, she chided herself for reacting so overtly to the mention of Batman. Thrust into the role of DA while the city tried to settle down after the 'Arkham Incident', as it was now being called, she had to maneuver a fine line between those who wanted Batman stopped... and her own feelings. Feelings of sympathy, of compassion, and understanding. Of concern, fear and regret.

Sensational news of Batman's continuing exploits filled her heart with terribly conflicted emotions: on the one hand, fear for his safety, on the other admiration for his dedication to justice and not mere revenge. But his extralegal activities also meant that, increasingly, defense attorneys were using Batman's actions as reasons to dismiss cases due to illegal procedures. So far her office had been able to secure convictions anyway, but it was only a matter of time before a criminal brought in by Batman would, tragically, be released by him as well. _When that happens, I may have to stand against Batman... against Bruce._

Her duty to the law was increasingly at war with the calls of her heart.

_Will he ever come back? _She liked to think that if Gotham could be set right by the powers above, if Bruce could see the system of justice working again, maybe that would be enough to make him put down the mask and return to her. But she also knew--better than almost anyone else--how deeply wounded he was by his parents' deaths, and that ultimately, Batman was but the surface manifestation of his permanently scarred soul. _At least he didn't say no when I suggested that once Gotham no longer needed Batman the man I loved might return._

Based on that slimmest of reeds, she still held out hope for Bruce. For Batman.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

* * *

The gaggle of Gotham's trendsetters and wealthy chatted easily amongst themselves, completely at ease in the comfortable surroundings of their host for tonight's charity event. Despite the stated purpose of raising money for the hundreds of families who lost loved ones in the Arkham Incident, no expense was being spared to pamper and comfort the guests. Each attendee entered the welcome atrium of their host's house, immaculately dressed and coiffed, and then paused to get their pictures taken by the registers with the host of tonight's ceremony. After that, they mingled over top of the line champagne and caviar, accompanied by smooth jazz playing by a famous band. All of a sudden, the volume of chatter rose rapidly, with a heavy undercurrent of deeper murmurings. Heads turned, and like moths to a flame everyone there began rushing towards the atrium. 

Smiling and resplendent in a perfectly-pressed tuxedo, Bruce Wayne strode in, walking easily and alone.

Whispers became quieter, more insistent. Many of them here tonight had witnessed or heard second-hand of Wayne's now-legendary meltdown at his birthday party a few months ago. Drunken outbursts were one thing, but to so brazenly attack those in his class, to accuse them of being social parasites and worse, was simply unprecedented in the long history of Gotham's elite social circles (murder and sexual misconducts were more common that what he had done, and not much worse). More than one of them felt a satisfied sense of karma that he had burned down his house as a result of his drunken revelry. A small number regretted he had managed to walk out at all.

Since the incident, Bruce had all but vanished from the social scene. His unannounced arrival tonight was a sign that he was back, welcome or not.

Passing by the fronds of chattering women and men, he stopped at the entrance to the house, standing somewhat awkwardly in anticipation. Wave after wave of flashes from cameras washed over him, and guards were being hard-pressed to hold back the insistent press. Watching the events unfold, the host of tonight's party, a rich oil tycoon named Arthur Jackson, took matters into his own hands.

"Bruce!" he said warmly, holding out his arms in grand welcome.

"Arthur, it's good to see you again," Bruce replied, taking him in embrace. "I'm sorry, I must have misplaced my invitation." He had received none at all.

"Bruce Wayne is always welcome in my house, any day." But he seemed to run out of positive things to say. A tick in the left corner of his mouth hinted that he was having difficulty maintaining the smile frozen on his face.

Reaching into his pocket, Bruce pulled out a check and spoke loudly: "Ladies and gentlemen of Gotham, to do my part to assist those among us who so tragically suffered as result of the recent tragedy, I have here a check from the Wayne Foundation for one million dollars!"

A thunderous, though not unanimous, wave of applause erupted. Bruce and Arthur embraced for the cameras, and finally the crowds began to disperse back into their original groups and cliques. Arthur gestured, and Bruce followed him as they wove their way into the masses, out of earshot of the press.

"So the prodigal son returns again," Arthur said in a pure West Texan twang. Vaguely, Bruce remembered Lucius telling him that when Arthur's accent was slipping, he was usually upset.

"Only to do what is right," Bruce said.

"Of course. We'll talk later; for now, just enjoy yourself. After all, I owe your for all that booze I drank last time." Without saying another word, he turned and went

Wincing, Bruce turned away. It didn't get any easier as a wealthy socialite came up to him, looking furious.

"You have a lot of nerve showing your face here tonight," she spat. "Thought you didn't like us 'suckups'!"

_For the most part, I don't. _But he wasn't here to argue. Lowering his head in acknowledgement, he said: "I was intemperate, and wrong. You can't buy back words with money, and I'm not hear to try. Just wanted to help those less fortunate."

"How touching," she replied acidly.

"Lots of children lost their parents in the recent tragedy," he said softly, "I feel a certain... responsibility to help them in particular."

She fell silent, mumbling, "Of course, of course." Quickly she walked way. In truth, he felt much more than a little responsibility. _If I had killed Ra's, would none of it have happened? _Although his commitment to avoiding killing still remained absolute, the implications of this scenario was something he often agonized about. The events of the recent past started to rush by him, and he willed himself not to allow them to enter into his mind. So intent on doing so, he didn't notice his name being called.

"Bruce?" a woman called out again. Quickly refocusing, he was facing two not unattractive middle-aged women.

"I'm sorry--Miss Fenwick, a pleasure to see you again."

"The same. This is Judge Jennifer McKenna, she is the new justice for the 1st Circuit Court of Gotham."

Smiling, Bruce said: "You have big shoes to fill, Your Honor."

Judge McKenna gave him a thin smile. "Dirty shoes, Mr. Wayne. Rest assured we will do everything in our power to root out corrupt judges like Faden from this city. Restoring Gotham will be a task in which everyone must participate."

"We're just glad to see you again, Bruce," Miss Fenwick replied. "Don't be a stranger anymore."

"I won't." Ms. Fenwick took Judge McKenna by the arm and led her away.

As Bruce worked the crowd, he was pleasantly surprised to find that more than a few seemed willing, even eager, to forget his antics a while back. _Of course, they still need my money,_ he thought sourly. It was a delicate balance he had to strike: while playing the obnoxious playboy to the extreme had proven to be problematic for his real goals, it would also be risky to become too ingratiated with the public, at least right away. Already there was pressure from some to get more involved in the community (as if he weren't already!), to make speeches--to do things that, while worthwhile, would distract him from his _true_ mission.

_Balance, that's always the key._ By the end of the evening, he had 'regressed' a bit, expressing more of the detached playboy attitude, minus the objectionable extremes he had initially adopted in response to Alfred's suggestions--in retrospect, perhaps one of the few times he had ever made a judgment error. The charitable work could continue--not least of which because it was worthwhile in and of itself--but from now on he would do it anonymously, or through his foundations if necessary.

He flirted with a couple of attractive young women who were guests of the party, then wearily made his way past all the reporters, guests and well-wishers, waling through many waiting vehicles until he finally reached his. As always, Alfred was there waiting for him.

"Good evening, Master Wayne. Pleasant evening?"

"Mostly," he replied with a smile. Sitting down in the rear of the relatively-small limo, Alfred got behind the wheel and started the car.

"The Pad, sir?"

"The Pad."

* * *

An hour later, Bruce and Alfred left the limo in the care of a valet and made their way into a fairly large and plush downtown condominium half a dozen blocks away from Wayne Tower, affectionately referred to by both of them as the Bachelor Pad, or just Pad when three syllables were too many. Across the West River, the skeletal struts of New Wayne Manor rose higher every day, but it would still be another six months or so before completion. For now, Alfred and Bruce spent most of their nights here, in close proximity to Wayne Tower and his day job. 

Aside from the amenities and the view, it was also set up quite nicely for Batman.

Around the block, a nondescript building was anything but on the inside. Leased through a set of trusted third-parties and heavily protected against unauthorized snooping, a mini-Batcave rested within, including space for the Tumbler, although at present it was back at the Batcave. There was also an extra suit, equipment, computers, and his newest toy: the Batcycle. So long as he had to operate in the city at all times, a smaller, less conspicuous vehicle was needed, and the two of them had just finished souping up an otherwise ordinary Harley-Davidson into something Batman could use in a pinch.

Normally at this time of night, he would be on patrol, but the necessity to take tonight's opportunity to repair his damaged links with Gotham high society took precedence. So instead, Bruce and Alfred sat in the dimly lit living room of the Pad, sipping tea and chatting.

"Will I see in tomorrow's paper headlines saying, 'Bruce Wayne's triumphant return'?" Alfred asked.

Chuckling, Bruce said: "Depends on which of my colleagues decides to print a story. I managed to woo a couple of them, but there are definitely still some hard feelings."

"I need hardly point out that last time you took a real shot at them, sir."

"I know, I haven't forgotten. Nor they, come to think of it." Bruce took a long sip. "Actually, a little distance between me and the rest of them is not a bad thing."

"How so?"

"I can't let too many others get too close--present company excepted, of course." He tried to smile, but it faded. "For their sake, as much as mine."

Alfred was silent, mulling over his tea. Bruce remembered his misgivings, but did not resent them. It was important to have a check on himself, someone to keep him in line. Then he spoke again: "It may just be image and reputation, but it would be a good thing for the people of Gotham to know that the Wayne legacy is still intact. That can only help Batman's legacy as well."

It always struck Bruce when Alfred would refer to his alter-ego in third person terms. Alfred continued: "As much as you fight crime on the streets, there's crime up high also, and your actions as Bruce Wayne will help inspire others to take up the burden of working for Gotham. Perhaps someday, enough of these people will make a difference--"

"Even so, crime will always be with us," Bruce said, an edge in his voice.

"Of course, I didn't mean to suggest otherwise. Let's just hope they remain small time wenches for now. Last thing a superhero needs are supervillians."

"I totally agree." Laughing, the two men began chatting about sports, news, the weather, all the things two longtime friends would spend an evening doing. But business was never far away.

Rising, Alfred said sleepily, "I believe I'll turn in sir. Tomorrow I will go back to Wayne Manor and check up on their progress."

"How's the foundation going?" Bruce asked, referring to the Batcave.

"I've added some additional security measures both inside and in the surrounding areas. Just in case." He frowned. "We really need to improve the egress part, but we'll need heavy equipment for that, and I didn't want to raise suspicion--"

"Of course not, that's sounds great. Next weekend I should be free, I've got some ideas about how to fix that."

"Excellent, sir. Pleasant dreams, Master Bruce."

"And to you, Alfred." Alone in the Pad, Bruce closed his eyes and indulged his wishes. Could it be possible for him to make a difference with others? Inspire people to act? _Perhaps, but I need to act. _He sighed. _We all share the same goal--well, almost all of us. But what is the best way to reach it?_

It was not a question anyone could answer in one night, not even Bruce Wayne. _Concentrate on those who don't. The rest is up to everyone else._

Kicking off his shoes, the plush sofa quickly lulled him into sleep. Even Batman needed a break once in a while.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**

* * *

**A harried Pamela Isley flinched violently as a hand unexpectedly touched her shoulder--for most of her life, surprise physical contact was bad news. Fortunately for Johnathan Staughton, she had refrained from flinging a beaker filled with noxious chemical reagents.

"Sorry, dear, but Mister Cataldi himself has sent a memo down to us lowly lab guys," he said with his always annoying grin. "You're to meet with him up in the board room in a half hour."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "Don't know. Whatever happens, don't forget to put in a good word for me!"

Pamela could think of a whole bunch of words she would love to use, but they would merely shore up her tattered dignity. Resignedly, she nodded, removed the goggles from he face and headed out of the lab, as usual braving a seemingly unending series of unwanted advances.

On the twelfth floor, there were fewer people who openly ogled and hit on her than below--it was an inverse relation from bottom to top, and apparently correlated with in-group status. But she had the sinking sensation that, unlike at the front desk or in the hallways, propositions at this level would be harder to fend off. Outside the boardroom stood Mr. Cataldi himself, a portly, wizened old figure who made her feel ill at ease. Sniffing, he held out his arms, trembling.

"Pam my dear, it's been too long!" Reluctantly, she let him hug her. At least it was brief; he quickly let go and continued: "You'll be glad I called you up, I promise."

"How so, Mister Cataldi?"

"Today I'm giving you an opportunity for advancement. I want to groom you personally for a leadership role in the company, so I want you to sit in today's meeting and observe today's proceedings. In the future, we'll have some more one-on-one training, and eventually I'll make sure you're put in the fast lane for upper management."

Inwardly she recoiled in disgust. _'One on one training' indeed! _"This is quite an honor, but I think my talents are better suited for the lab," she said quickly. "If you want someone more suitable, perhaps you should pick Dr. Lieberman, he's been here longer—"

"Nonsense, my dear," he replied emphatically. "You're clearly the best endowed—er, qualified." He gave her a quick lookover, then his head snapped up as the other board members began filing towards them from the elevator. "We'll discuss this later, for now come in, come in!"

Pamela had no choice but to comply, so she went in. Unlike most of the rest of the building, the room was clean and extravagantly furnished, with a large marble table with two dozen plush chairs surrounding it. The rich brown carpet was thick and springy, and enormous plate-glass windows gave an expansive view of Gotham's downtown. Middle-aged men and women in impeccably tailored suits began filing in, most carrying briefcases and folders filled with papers. Aware that her lab coat, jeans and sweatshirt were not management garb, nevertheless she felt no embarrassment whatsoever--concern for fashion was far down on the list of things that mattered to her. She felt Cataldi tugging her arm, and reluctantly sat at his side, although she pushed the chair as far as possible from the table.

As the doors closed behind the last person to enter, she was surprised to see one man sweeping the room with some type of scanner. After a few minutes, he said: "Room's secure," and then stood at the entrance, silent. Smiling, Cataldi stood up.

"Good morning everyone," he said warmly. "As you know, today is our 'special' meeting. We can afford to be honest now--"

Everyone but Pamela laughed out loud. Grinning, he continued: "--so don't hold back. I want everyone's best ideas about how we can maximize profits!"

One of them immediately spoke after he stopped. "Who's the broad? Your niece?"

More chuckles, and some interested stares as well. "Steven, you should be ashamed," Cataldi chided. "Don't you recognize our lead scientist, Pamela Isley? I've chosen her to be my protégé, so get used to seeing her here."

Now the appreciative stares from the men changed to whispered dismay. Unlike Steven, most of them knew of her less-than-enthusiastic embrace of corporate values. Then again, they probably also knew why she was really here.

Under Cataldi's now-chilly gaze, no one raised any further objections. _Despite his age, he's still the head lion of this pride. _He said: "Now, to business."

For the next two hours, every gruesome imagining and fiendish accusation that one could make of big business, and more, came true before her shocked eyes and ears. Discussions of how to bribe politicians in Third World countries for more favorable drug-importation terms; payments to lobbyists who would argue against adopting stricter biodiversity treaties; dumping medical waste products in the ocean to avoid clean up costs; financial dodges of every type, the machinations went on and on. Acidly, she noted that they weren't acting merely out of selfish interests for their own company--they were willing to make sacrifices so that _all_ companies could benefit. In keeping with Staughton's words, they were planning to sabotage their promising TB vaccine program, even though it would hurt the bottom line. _Can't have cures now, can we?_

It was one scheme in particular which finally set her off.

"...agreed to pay Interior Minister Cardoso's demands for razing the Tiburon Preserve outside Manaus," a well-coiffed executive began. "Fleckler Medical's going to be in a for a real surprise when they learn that their prized Brazilian sample site is going to be a cattle farm next week--"

She leaped out of her seat, unable to contain her outrage. "You're going to destroy a half-million acres of Amazonian rainforest--not even to exploit, but just to keep your competitors from exploiting it?"

The man said contemptuously, "Exactly, little girl, you got a problem with that?" Seething, she said nothing and sat down. The conversations continued on as the cabal continued discussing how the rape and murder of the natural world would raise next quarter's profit outlook. One of them blew a kiss her way; others made rude hand gestures. _Like high school all over agin. S_he scowled and ignored them all.

At last the meeting was adjourned. The security cameras whirred back to life above her head as the boardmembers streamed out, chatting about their next golf games and dinner plans. She distinctly heard one voice say "--be a crazy bitch, but damn she's hot."

She got up to leave when Cataldi called out: "Let's meet next Monday, I've got some reports to show you."

"I bet," she muttered under hear breath. Without waiting for a response, she left the room, and began to run.

* * *

An hour later, surrounded by the brooding trees of Gotham Central Park, Pamela finally stopped running. 

Her breath came back to her faster than her sanity. When an organism dies, it can no longer hold off the forces of putrefaction and it starts to decay. That was the closest she could describe how she felt inside--it was as if the degradations and humiliations she endured daily had finally breached her inner soul, turning it to rot. Running away was the only thing that would save herself from being consumed by the stinking weight of human lust and greed. She tried to shake the images and thoughts from her mind, but cursed as she was with a near photographic memory, they continued to flash by like a miasmic stream of sewage.

She was drowning, the madness threatening to overwhelm her. In a panic, she started running again.

Ignoring the startled looks of the few who dared stroll about even in daylight, she ran into the trees, desperate to avoid having to look at another human face. She forced herself to keep from retching, and lost the battle. Disgusted with herself, with everyone and everything, she covered her face and tried to keep from screaming and crying. Noticing her ID card hanging in a string around her neck, she frantically clawed at it as if it were a snake, then flung it into the woods.

Gradually, her breathing and heartbeats slowed as she regained control of her faculties. It helped being surrounded by plants--though, as she stood up and examined them more carefully, she sadly could see the mark of environmental damage. Large and lustrous as Gotham Central Park used to be, the continued unchecked growth of the city had poisoned the air, water and soil which they needed. Valiantly they persevered, growing year after year, but the spread of blackened leaves and shriveled stems attested to the state of the battle. She sank to her knees, kneeling among the trees and shrubs.

_All of nature is at war with mankind, and the wrong side is winning._ It filled her with anger and sadness, fear and outrage. But what could she do? What could one person do, when facing the whole hideous machinery of industrial civilization?

One thing was clear: before fighting the machine, you had to unplug yourself from it. It was long past time she quit that job at Cataldi and did something else, however futile. Maybe work full time for Gotham Greens or Earth First--anything but return to that nightmare. As she prepared to leave, she stopped, cursing: her apartment key was on the same chain as the ID card!

"Crap." Backtracking, she began searching the shrubs. It was getting dark; clouds were gathering overhead, threatening rain. She also realized how alone she was, and a woman alone in an isolated area of Gotham City was like a newborn fawn in the savanna: prey.

She began searching faster. Finally, she saw a chain sticking out from a bunch of green leaves on the ground. Running over, she thrust her hand inside, searching for the card. Seconds later she let out a yelp of pain and drew it back. Her trembling hand was covered in ugly red splotches, and burned as if soaked in acid.

Fighting back tears, she looked down at the offending plant, a large cluster of... "What's it called again," she wondered out loud, momentarily lost in thought. "Don't get lazy! What was it--I remember now! _Toxicodendron radicans._" Her momentary anger the plant quickly subsided. _She did nothing wrong, that's how she defended herself. All she wants is a chance to grow and spread her seeds according to the impartial laws of Mother Nature. Nothing like mankind, which always cheats, always takes and never gives. _She felt an urge to pet it and reassure the plant she meant it no harm, but her mind overruled her heart. _She may be a plant, but she still stings!_

Gingerly she took out the card and beheld it. A picture of her stared dully back, a look of dejected surrender which sparked in her a sense of outrage. Angrily she focused on her blistering fingers. _Urushiol, the active agent of _Toxicodendron radicans. _It's the body's own T-lymphocytes that's causing the dermatitis, attacking skin cells which the compound is bonded to. _It was an apt metaphor for how humans acted with respect to nature: reacting indiscriminately to the processes of nature which in turn did damage to the environment. _Urushiol turns the body's immune system against itself. A very clever toxin._

_Toxin..._

She stared at the card, then her hand. Then the card again, then her hand again.

"Poisons..."

An eerie sense of calm and peace filled her. Something was calling to her, urging her to action. Pieces of reality once disparate now seemed to fit into a new, and powerful whole. Slowly, she rose from the ground, her face placid, the pain in her hand almost forgotten. Turning about, she took in the visages of ravaged nature, and a steely cold rage filled every fiber of her being.

_It's time to strike back._

An impossible notion began to form. It was crazy, ridiculous: it could never work. Then she realized that there was one other ingredient she possessed, the enzyme that would catalyze the coming counter-reaction. It was a tool that would now enable her to strike at the heart of her enemies' greatest weakness, a tool that ironically she had been fighting to ignore her entire life:

_Myself._

A thin smile appeared on her face. "Maybe I won't quit just yet." Pocketing the card, she strode out of the woods back to the pathways, a purposeful spurt in her stride.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**

* * *

**

By the standards of Gotham City, the #245-D city bus was in decent shape, with almost no graffiti visible and intact seats. Running a circuitous loop from the Central District to Uptown Gotham, in daytime it was a fairly uneventful trip; it would almost be safe to ride at night, except that the overall level of crime in the City was so high that buses had long ago ceased operating after hours. Half-filled with passengers, the bus made its way with reasonable speed through downtown, as the driver maintained a good pace to take advantage of light traffic.

Turning the corner, a vast copse of sickly trees lay to his right as he passed by the northern end of Gotham Central Park. To his surprise, a lone figure waited at the next stop, unusual for this time of day. He pulled up to the curve, opened the door, and stared as a tall slender woman boarded.

He was not the only one--every head turned towards her, drawn. Of course they noticed her physical attributes--none would soon forget the mysterious tall diva in their midst, her red hair or her creamy skin. But as the ride continued, something about the woman's demeanor caused them unease. She sat perfectly still, as if she were a mannequin someone had left behind. Her eyes stared straight ahead, her blinking unnaturally slow. Only her head moved, in small, jerking movements here and there, stopping instantly. She seemed less a person than an iguana in human form.

A middle-aged woman seated closest to her, concerned, moved towards her and whispered, "Are you alright, dear? Were you mugged?"

For a few seconds she did not respond. Then her head jerked towards the woman, who started. A strange, twisted half-smile appeared on her face. "I'm fine," she said, and fell silent.

The other woman waited for more, but nothing else came. Unnerved, the woman quickly changed seats. A young man quickly took her place, exuding confidence. Pulling up beside her, the silent woman didn't flinch.

"How's it hangin' babe?" he asked huskily.

"It's all good." Again she said nothing else.

Undaunted, he stretched ostentatiously, his right arm now hovering strategically around her shoulder. Almost touching her left ear, he whispered breathily, "I'm Bill."

Her head lolled slightly towards him. "I've got a rash."

He blinked in confusion. "Huh? Come again, babe?"

She turned to face him, moving her whole body, saying: "Pleased to meet you, Bill--" and then quickly thrust her right hand towards him, placing it on his left cheek. At first it was cool and smooth, then it burned.

"Ouch!" He immediately pulled away. She held up her right hand, which was covered with crimson splotches and blisters. She waved it, staring back at him with those eyes of jade fire and emerald ice.

"You see? I've got a rash," she said, her voice fearfully sweet.

He was tempted to hit her, but clearly there was something not right about this chick. Cursing liberally, he took another seat as well, while she continued to look ahead in complete silence and stillness. No one stared her way anymore, and when suddenly her arm shot up and signaled for the bus to stop, everyone else was deeply relieved when she was gone.

Across the street from Cataldi Pharmaceuticals, the woman stood motionless on the street corner, her head slightly askew, staring at the building without blinking. She continued to stare until her eyes began to quiver in desperation for lubrication. Then she blinked once, and her body sagged a bit in relaxation.

She crossed the street.

* * *

It was just after four in the afternoon when Isley walked in to the lab. As he saw her, Staughton was greatly surprised by her appearance; the closest thing he could think of to explain it was that she had done twelve rounds of Greco-Roman wrestling in someone's backyard. Instead of a tight ponytail, her hair hung about in disheveled strands, leaves and branches sticking out everywhere. Her white labcoat was splotched with dirt and mud, and her facial expression was most peculiar, dull and placid, with vacant eyes. 

If he didn't know who Pamela was, he'd say she was completely whacked out on weed. _But she never lets loose_—_too bad. _She walked past her labmates, who themselves were so puzzled by her appearance that they did not catcall as usual.

"Where've you been, Isley?" he barked at her.

"Oh I just went out for some fresh air, to clear my head," she said in a strange flat tone of voice, her eyes seemingly focused elsewhere.

_Definitely high, _he thought. "Get back to work," he said curtly, "I expect to see progress by week's end."

With a weird enthusiasm, she replied: "Yes, Mister Staughton, back to work right away!" Without another word she sat at her desk, pulling out tubes and starting to mix chemicals. She was still at it when he left at a quarter-past seven, the only one remaining in the dark lab.

* * *

When he came to work the next morning, Isley was already there, cleaned up but otherwise the same, hiding behind old college clothes and those damn plastic glasses. He couldn't remember the time seeing her dressed in anything else, and it was definitely starting to spoil the fun of fantasizing about her. _Oh well, back to work. _He spent the rest of the morning thinking how he could put the latest failed tests for their new weight loss drug into a better light for his bosses. Getting hungry, he decided he'd put Isley on the project and let her take the blame. 

It was almost two before he returned to the office. Opening, the door, he was very surprised to see Pamela Isley sitting in his chair.

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh Mister Staughton," she said breathlessly, "I just wanted to meet with you in private. You know, talk things over one on one."

Her voice was simply angelic. _No, _he corrected himself, _that voice ain't that of any angel! _It was the voice of his dreams, beckoning him, urging him to have his way with her. Quickly he shut the door behind him, fumbling for the lock, unable to find it. Ignoring it, he quickly moved closer to her.

"I see, Miss Isley," he said confidently, regaining control of himself. "Well, I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific, I'm a very busy man."

Silkily she rose from her seat, now at full height. He never realized how tall she actually was.

"I know you've been a busy man, Mr. Staughton—or can I call you John?" Wordlessly he nodded, utterly paralyzed. Smiling, she inched towards him. "John, you're my only hope."

It took all his concentration to keep his hands from shaking. "F-for what?" he stammered.

Her smile faded to a sexy pout. Reaching up behind her, she undid her pony tail, then gracefully shook her head to and fro to straighten her hair out. Humming in pleasure, she came closer until she stood right in front of him, then removed her sweatshirt! _Oh God... _

"Sorry, it's a little warm in here," she said, fanning herself. To his disappointment she was still wearing a tie-dye T-shirt, but he had to like the direction events were moving in! "Anyway, I was just hoping you could help me get ahead here at Cataldi." She reached out with her hand. "I would be, very—" she tapped him on the chest; "—very—" she tapped him on the neck; "—grateful." She tapped him on the nose, and then kissed it.

Sweating profusely, he decided to go for it all. "I'd be happy to help, but you're going to need to show me, your work--what you can do. I need a full demonstration." _Please don't let me blow this, please don't let me blow this..._

Smiling again, she stretched and yawned. "Alright. I'm going to go to the little girl's room and freshen up. Why don't you wait here and... get yourself ready."

He nodded vigorously, and stepped aside. Pamela walked past him, swaying her hips prominently. Before she left, she paused and looked over her shoulder back at him.

"Hope you can keep up with me, Johnny," she said, winking. Then she was gone.

Immediately he shut the door and kicked off his shoes. As quietly as he could, he began pushing everything off his desk to make space. Loosening his time and belt buckle, he settled down in his seat and wiped his forehead. _It's going to happen, it's really going to happen! _he thought over and over again. "Oh, wait till they hear about this," he said happily, rubbing his hands.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Panting, he wondered what kind of 'performance' Pamela would put on for him. _Never figured Miss Environmentalist-slash-Bookworm was the type, but it's always the quiet ones, isn't it? And what did she mean, 'hope you can keep up'? _He puzzled over her words, then saw a small plastic flask filled with purple liquid on the far right corner of the desk.

"Where did that come from?" Staughton wondered aloud; he thought he had gotten rid of all the Atlas samples from his office. _Did she bring it in? Holy moley, that's it! _Atlas was Cataldi's Viagra-killer, a potent combination-drug that not only eliminated impotence but also stoked desire, whereas Viagra and related drugs only did the former. _And it's to die for, _he chuckled. The rats they had given Atlas to were... very happy, but they had also suffered dangerously high blood pressure, and eventually fatal heart failure. His own experiences had reflected that--Atlas would make the party last till dawn, but it also put your heart into overdrive. And once it wore off, it led to a desperate craving for more that was worse than any heroin withdrawal. He looked at the bottle warily, for it had gotten him into trouble more than once. Then again, if Isley was serious, as a balding, overweight man in his late-forties he'd need every edge and more to keep up with the twenty-four year old beauty.

_If ever there was a time to juice the ball, this is it!_ He poured a few drops into a spoon, well below the danger threshold, then took it. Within minutes, he could feel the blood rising, his heart beating quicker. In five more minutes, he'd be able to ride Isley till the cows came home.

Staughton's heart continued to beat faster. _Shouldn't be this quick, _he thought in puzzlement. His entire skin felt flush, not just his face. The room began to spin; dazed, he tried to rise from his chair, then fell again.

"What's happening?" he breathed, now becoming alarmed. His heart was beating so rapidly he could hardly feel individual beats, it was just one continuous vibration in his chest. Pain started to radiate outwards; his arms were shaking uncontrollably, and his fingers were palest white. A sudden tangy taste was rising in his throat--it was blood! _Internal bleeding--my God, I'm dying! _

"Help!" he cried weakly, but no one responded. "Pamela--" he couldn't finish her name, the pain of speaking was too great. Now his heart beat slowed and became erratic, skipping beats. A terrible pressure filled his head, as if it would burst at any moment. He collapsed to the floor, his breathing becoming shallow. Desperately, he fumbled for the phone, but only crawled a short bit before collapsing.

_This can't be happening, I only had a drop! _Savage pains ripped through his chest; the symptoms, he knew, of cardiac arrest. His mind swirled with strange images and thoughts as the world faded around him.

_Full strength... happened to rats... taking Atlas... must... been... concentrated... Isley... kill... why..._

The blackness enveloped him once and for all.

* * *

In his death throes, Staughton had not noticed the door was not completely closed, but opened a tiny bit. As his large body quivered and then fell still, the door slowly opened and Pamela Isley walked in. After putting a hand on his portly neck to confirm that he was dead, she put her hands to her cheeks and in true B-horror movie heroine fashion let out a prototypical scream. 

"Ahhhhh!"

* * *

"Thank you for your time. Good day." Tipping his cap, the policeman walked out the front door of Cataldi Pharmaceuticals. Mr. Cataldi waited until his car had departed before turning to Isley. 

"You're certain they won't find anything?" he asked roughly.

Isley nodded. "Atlas is very quickly metabolized, and unless they knew what to look for, it's unlikely their forensic experts will find anything. And I don't think they'll try all that hard in the first place. After all, anyone can die of a heart attack."

"What about the police, what did they ask? What did you tell them?"

"The truth," she replied. "I walked in on Mr. Staughton and found him lying dead on the floor. He asked about his health, I told him it was bad, and what he likes to do in his office," she said grimly. "The cop put two and two together and left it at that."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Alright, no harm done then. I'll make sure the right media people are paid off, and that'll be the end of it. Including Atlas--we'll put it on the backburner for now. I want you to get back to work on your original projects."

"Yes, Mister Cataldi."

He smiled and patted her on the cheek. "Good job, dear. I won't forget it."

"Thank you, sir." Cataldi turned and left, while Isley disgustedly wiped her cheek.

"Serves you right, 'Johnny'," Pamela hissed softly. She had worried greatly that she would have to go farther than she did with Staughton to make him take the ultra-concentrated Atlas sample she had conveniently left on his desk during his lunchbreak, but as with the male rats she had tested Atlas on, only the barest amount of physical stimuli was necessary. _A note for my lab notebook: human males are no smarter than rats in their willingness to indulge their sexual desires to their doom, _she thought amusedly.

For the first time in ages she felt a sense of exhilaration and empowerment: she had struck her first blow at the Machine, and gotten away with it. The building was almost deserted; it was getting dark outside. Pamela stepped out onto the busy street, and took a deep breath. Coughing, she frowned: the air quality was typically poor. _One step at a time, Pamela. By the time I'm finished, Gotham City will be as pure as a crystal mountain stream. With--or without--people.  
_

There was much more to be done. _So, what does a girl do after striking the first blow for Mother Nature against mankind? _

The answer was obvious: "She goes shopping!" Walking over to her bike, she unlocked it and rode away.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

**

* * *

**

Pedaling furiously, Pamela Isley finally arrived at her destination: 12th Avenue, the location of Gotham's upscale shopping district. The people walking the streets were a far cry from those she normally lived and associated with: immaculately dressed and coiffed, they moved with a serene arrogance, smug and secure in their place atop the social pyramid. Many of her friends would no doubt rail against the extreme inequality of wealth represented here, where just around the corner the poor and desperate were vigorously kept away by the hired hands of the elites. For her, however, the problem of man exploiting man was no longer her concern; rather, these people were her enemy for their support, however indirect, of the exploitation of the natural world. Part of executing her master plan would require adapting their garb and mannerisms._ So as to destroy them from within._

Completely ignorant about matters of fashion, it was time to get a crash course. Ignoring the scandalized stares coming her way, she brazenly walked into the nearest large department store and headed for the woman's section.

"Yes, madam?" the sales lady behind the cosmetics counter said stiffly as she eyed Isley waiting in front of her.

"Hello! I'm interested in getting a makeover," she said in an uncommonly bright tone of voice. "Could you help me?"

The other woman snorted, but as Pamela undid her ponytail and removed her glasses, her disdain slowly turned to admiring interest. Before long, she was being attended to by several women who blushed her cheeks, cleaned her pores, combed her hair, applied lipstick and strategically placed sickly sweet perfume on her face and neck. Squinting, she recognized a bottle of perfume that was on the Gotham Green's boycott list for using a rare endangered African flower as its main ingredient. With cold anger, she thought: _Don't think I'll forget your crimes against nature!_

After what seemed like an interminable period of time, the gaggle of cosmetic ladies stepped away. Putting her glasses back on again, a frail, delicate waif stared back at her, one of those plastic people one saw plastered up on bus stops or billboards. _Is that really me? _The contrast was striking; she was no longer herself. Pamela flashed a vapid smile, and all the other women started to clap, telling her how marvelous she looked. Taking out her checkbook, she paid an enormous sum of money for her new supply of beauty products. "Not exactly how you're supposed to use your grant money," she chuckled to herself.

Mindful that it might be suspicious to do all her shopping at one store, she left and began searching for another one. Along the way, she stopped at a magazine stand and picked up a woman's fashion magazine. Another simpering plastic woman stared back on the cover, and she flipped through its contents, amazed at the sheer triviality of its contents. _What good is it to know how to have a good orgasm or lose cellulite in the hips when the ozone layer is gone and the rainforests are all cut down?_ She chided herself for bothering to argue; it was merely a source of intelligence information, nothing more.

Entering another store, she headed for the woman's store on the second floor. Stepping into a dressing room, she methodically stripped down and gave herself a critical appraisal, comparing her figure with that of the mannequins in the magazine. Never one to fetishize exercise, her figure was nonetheless quite trim and well-muscled, a product of a strict vegetarian diet and foregoing petroleum-based transport by biking two miles to work every day. Parts of her could stand to fill out here and there, but objectively she was certainly a match for any of them. All she had to do now was purchase the requisite attire.

Stepping out, Pamela began collecting items of clothing that could aid her in the future: blouses and skirts, slips, lacy bras and underwear, hosiery. Putting them on was a strange and unpleasant sensation, far different from the simple cotton jeans and t-shirts she got by with. _No dress for high school or college graduations, never went to any social events despite being pursued like a fox during a hunt. _There might be a picture of her as a little girl wearing a skirt, but that was it. She squirmed; all this smooth silk was making her itch. With a grimace, she carefully hooked every strap and buttoned every button, then reappraised herself. "You're to die for, Pamela" she said in an exaggerated diva accent. _But you better make sure._

Reluctantly she stepped out and asked another saleswoman for her advice. This time, she was met with approval, save for a few tucks and pulls. "Would you like to look at our shoe selection madam?"

Pamela froze. _High heels!_ But she had no choice. Gritting her teeth, she reluctantly nodded and followed her to Footwear. The saleswoman nodded approvingly as she examined her legs and took her foot size, then brought over a few boxes filled with shiny black high-heeled shoes. Sweating, Pamela took the largest size available and squeezed into them. It was a tight fit for her slender but long feet, and as she stood her legs wobbled precipitously. It felt like she was leaning over a railing. She took one step, tottered, took another, then fell crashing down.

Everyone looked around in surprise at the sight of the tall beautiful redhead sprawled across the floor. Savagely ignoring the pain in her side, she roughly got back to her feet, but could only take a few steps before needing to lean on the saleswoman. _Figure it out later._ Pamela gratefully removed the shoes and boxed them, signing away a small fortune as she paid for purchases and left.

* * *

It was not easy cycling home carrying box after box of clothes and cosmetics, but she made it. Before going to bed, Pamela stripped down and put on her new black-silk bra and panties. then the stockings and shoes. She stood in front of her mirror, and again fell over because of those damned high heels. Angrily she got up and began stretching her arms and crossing her legs, attempting to strike several seductive poses. Finally she stopped, feeling ridiculous. Looking at her copy of the magazine, she studied their body contortions, then tried to mimic them. She still looked and felt ridiculous.

"This is what men want?" she wondered aloud. Disgruntled, she kept practicing, now aided by watching her seldom-used TV set. Gradually, Pamela recognized the characteristics of successful female seduction—above all, the need to downplay one's intelligence and feign total interest in the actions of the male, however trivial. _Of course, it's all a game to them as well. Human females have had to put up with stupid human males for a long time, so no doubt they know how to play the game and keep their real thoughts hidden. _It dawned on her that her information source may be biased, that since television and movies were made by men primarily for men (especially when depicting behavior related to mating rituals) that it was not really showing successful seduction strategies, but merely what men _thought _was successful. _Oh well, we'll only know when we try._ She stupidly blew a kiss to the mirror, then went to sleep.

* * *

Despite last night, Pamela came to Cataldi that morning looking the same as before. She had work to do. 

At her lab station, Pamela Isley took out the test tube filled with encapsulated Islet of Langerhans cells and examined it. The synthetic protein-based capsule was a marvelous microscopic mixture of patches, openings and attachment points: patches to mask the islet cells' MHC markers to hide them from the immune system; openings to allow nutrition to flow in and waste products to flow out so that the cell could be maintained by the body; and attachment points where the adhesive would safely connect the capsule to the encapsulated cells themselves. She had perfected this revolutionary technique for islet cells to allow them to be implanted in Type 1 diabetic patients, thereby relieving them of the need to inject insulin, but with her new outlook on life, curing people of diabetes was no longer her concern.

But all her work was not in vain—some more interesting applications of this technique now come to mind.

Over the next week she worked feverishly. First she took a stock solution of yeast cells that were used to create medical compounds through modification of their genes. Looking up the chemical reaction processes in academic journals, it took two full days to create the right gene sequence to enable the yeast to create sodium nitrite without harm to themselves. The next day she took a sample of encapsulated islet cells and placed them into another beaker. Into this beaker she poured a synthetic enzyme, which in a few minutes dissolved the adhesive that held them to the cell. The component parts of the capsule floated free, allowing the islet cells to be removed. She then applied a positively-charged adhesive solution to the empty capsules, a negatively-charged adhesive solution to the genetically-modified yeast, then poured both of them into a common container. Slowly but surely, the positive and negatively-charged attachment points on the capsules and yeast cells came together, and after a few hours under the microscope she saw that all the yeast cells were now successfully covered by the capsules unharmed. The next part was the hardest: creating a molecular trigger that would stimulate the encapsulated cells to produce sodium nitrite in the presence of cyanide in the blood. Her original trigger was designed to stimulate the encapsulated cells in the _absence _of insulin, completely the opposite. It took a long overnight session in the labs to create one, but in the end she did, and attached them to the encapsulated cells.

Now, the test. She took two cultures of heart cells bathed in blood, one filled with the encapsulated yeast cells, and one without. Then she introduced a solution of hydrogen cyanide to both of them. In the ones without the capsules, the cyanide quickly interfered with the oxygen-utilization metabolism of the heart cells--within ten minutes, all the heart cells were dead. In the other sample, however, the presence of cyanide triggered the encapsulated bacteria to release sodium nitrite into solution, which altered the hemoglobin of the red blood cells in such a way that the cyanide bonded with it instead of the heart cells--all of them survived. Normally sodium nitrite had to be injected in the body to relieve cyanide poisoning, but the encapsulated cells had provided immediate protection.

It had worked _in vitro_. Now came the final challenge. First, she needed to acquire more cyanide, without raising suspicions.

* * *

The next morning Pamela Isley came to work a new woman. Her hair was still in a ponytail, but there was a certain shine and bounce to it, thanks to liberal applications of some very expensive shampoo and conditioner. Instead of her old faded jeans, she now wore stylish ones that were much more snug and showed off her legs to good effect. A simple lavender blouse replaced her sweatshirt, its translucent color allowing everyone to see the contours of her new push-up bra underneath. She still wore glasses, however, and open-toed sandals instead of heels (this was technically a violation of lab procedure but no one objected). She was pleased to note that, paradoxically, fewer men approached to hit on her, seemingly intimidated by the swan in their midst.

She went downstairs to the Dangerous Chemicals vault. A gangly lab-tech at the front desk stared blankly as she approached.

"Hi," she said brightly, "I was wondering if you could do me a favor." He continued to stare, slack-jawed.

"Right, I need 500 ml of HCN solution, please?"

He blinked, "Uh, sure... please f-fill out this requisition form--"

She leaned closer, making sure her blouse hung loose. "Oh, we don't need to that now, do we? It'd just slow things down." She pouted, giving her best look of disappointment.

Trembling, he said rapidly: "Right! Never mind, just wait right here, I'll get it in a flash!" He ran towards a large metal door, entered a code and opened it, disappearing inside. Waiting, Pamela leaned against the desk, stretching full-length, waving at a not-very-handsome tech behind a computer, who just nodded vaguely.

A minute later he was back with a heavily-sealed flask. "Here you go, Dr. Isley."

"Thanks!" she said, blowing him a kiss. Turning away, she ignored his babbling of his name and phone number.

She took the cyanide and encapsulated cells to a secure testing room. Taking a deep breath, she injected the encapsulated cells into her arm. _So far, no ill effects._ Slightly trembling, she took out a small dosage of cyanide, not immediately lethal, and poured into into an aerosolizer. A vaguely almond scent filled the room, and she took a deep breath, then waited. A minute passed; by now a normal person would be feeling headaches and nausea, then rapidly degenerating into seizures and asphyxiation, but so far no ill effects. She poured more and more cyanide into the aersolizer, until it was ten times lethal doseage. A few more minutes passed, then suddenly she felt fatigued and short of breath. She took deep breathes, but it didn't help; she slipped to the floor. Panicked, she tried to reach for the alarm, but couldn't get up. _What a fool I was! _she thought despairingly.

But slowly she became rejuvenated; each breath made her feel better and better, until at last Pamela was able to stand. Surrounded by a lethal cloud of cyanide, she felt completely normal. Her grin was that of the devil.

_Now I can begin._

She activated the ventilation system, which cleared the air. Taking a chemical shower to remove all traces of the cyanide, Pamela left work a happy woman.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

**

* * *

**

As she worked on creating encapsulated cells that could create fomepizole, Pamela Isley began searching for information about the whereabouts of her first target: Larry Watner, chief lobbyist for the national association of timber and meat-processing industries for the entire country. The name had come up during that special meeting of Cataldi Pharmaceuticals, and the more she learned about him the more she despised him. Not only had he been the spearhead in Congress to vote against ratification of the recent biodiversity treaty, he had played a role in liberalizing rules for cutting down old-growth forests in the Pacific Northwest, and reducing import restrictions on Latin American beef. In the name of increasing export sales, every week thousands of acres of South American rainforests were being cut down to make land for cattle grazing. Eliminating Watner, while in and of itself unlikely to halt these activities, mattered because the despoilers had to pay for their ecocrimes in person--there would be time to go after the firms themselves later, once she got things going.

The next day, after making a few discrete phone calls to his DC office, she learned that he would be in Gotham this weekend for a business conference about investment opportunities in developing markets. _Translation: how to force developing countries to give up their lands in exchange for the illusory promise of dollars._ The conference ended Saturday evening, which meant most of the attendees would be hitting the town that night before having to return home.

As the sun began to set over Gotham that Saturday evening, Pamela carefully reviewed every aspect of her plan while she began doing her hair and makeup. It was simple, the necessary ingredients had been perfected in the lab, but one unknown remained: whether she could successfully pull off the role of femme fatale, that being the one thing she had not had a chance to practice. _Now is as good a time as any._

Finished, Pamela carefully appraised her appearance in the mirror, checking every strand of her long flowing hair and every piece of form-fitting clothing. The distance between her old appearance and now was almost beyond comprehension, but even her physical transformation paled in comparison to the change within. Before she had futilely raged against the despoilation of nature, making lots of noise, but in the end accomplishing nothing. Now, she was a defender of the earth, bringing to her beleaguered side the weapon that mankind yielded so ruthlessly and effectively: intelligence. _I have figured it all out, I have a plan of action, _she thought ruthlessly. _I will save the earth, and nothing will stop me!_

Pamela nodded: everything was ready. She turned off the lights and left.

* * *

"Is Mister Watner in?" Pamela asked the front desk man in the lobby of Gotham International Hotel. 

The man stared at her, but quickly regained his composure. "I'm sorry, I can't divulge information about our guests."

"I just need to see him. You know, for a personal matter." He shook his head, so she continued: "If you do so, I promise to be... grateful to you, too." She wiggled suggestively.

His knowing smirk suggested he'd heard that line before as well. "Well, then, he did check in at 9:40PM and has not yet left his room, so why don't you give him a call?"

"I'll do that--thanks again!" She turned and headed to the elevators, then doubled around and exited, discarding the hat and sunglasses she was wearing. Crossing the street, she waited, hailing a taxi. One came and the driver asked, "Where to, Miss?"

"Wait here, I'll tell you when to go."

He grunted, then said: "Okay, it's your dime, doll." They waited, the cabdriver bored but pleased with himself, as the meter continued to run.

Pamela began to get nervous. _It's past ten, what's he doing? _It was almost time to go to Plan B and go to his hotel room directly, which would be much more risky. Steeling herself to do so, at last Pamela saw Watner come out, alone. He hailed a cab, and disappeared into it.

"There! That cab, follow it!"

"Wha-"

"You heard me!" He shrugged and followed the cab, which was not difficult as traffic in the City was an absolute zoo, with countless thousands either entering the City or moving from the evening's first activity to the next. Finally his cab pulled up in front of a nightclub named Izzy's. Pamela had never heard of it before, but the long line snaking around the corner suggested it had a good reputation among the trendy. Her cab pulled over across the street. She watched as Watner talked to a man in the suit at the door, who nodded and let him enter ahead of the others.

The cabdriver said: "Alright, that'll be $134."

Flashing a smile, Pamela opened her purse and said: "Just a moment. Here it is--" She held out a small bottle and sprayed it in his face. He gasped, then choked, then collapsed.

She had sprayed him with a concentrated aerosol mixture of benzodiazepine and other chemicals that induced anteretrograde amnesia. By the time he woke up in an hour or so, he would have no recollection of anything that had happened in the past six hours. She quickly got out and crossed the street, satisfied with the result of this field test. _I have big plans for you, my little memory potion._

The bouncers of Izzy's were big, gruff, men, and very few dared try to work their way past. Consciously willing herself to walk with boldness and sass, she strode imperiously up to the entrance and brazenly thrust herself in front of the guards. "Hey, can a single girl get a little action here tonight?"

They both gave her an approving lookover and nodded in unison, stepping aside and saying: "Welcome to the club, Miss." She flashed them a smile as she strutted inside.

* * *

At the bar, Larry Watner calmly sipped his Seltzer water, preferring to keep his head clear for later tonight. Ignoring the tangle of people jostling around him, he concentrated on the dance floor, checking out all the ladies dressed to impress, swerving and undulating to the hard beat. Dark except for the flashing of the strobe light, there was a manic energy in the air as Gotham came out to unwind. For his part, though, he was mildly disappointed; his buddy had told him this was the place to hook up, but his expert eye quickly pegged most of them as desperate posers, caked under too much makeup and barely able to fit in their tight outfits, as they tried to score with a man of means. He had heard it said that it's better when the women are going after the men rather than vice-versa. Clearly that bit of conventional wisdom, wasn't. 

He stood up, trying to get to other side of the club when he saw her, weaving in and out towards the middle of the dance floor. She towered over most of the other patrons, and in the staccato rhythm of light he saw just how hot she was--red hair, white skin, wearing a dark green tube top and black leather pants. She swayed slightly, somewhat out of beat with the music, but clearly no one paid any attention. Guy after guy, a few even better looking than him, came up to her, but she blithely dismissed them--obviously, she knew what she had and wouldn't settle for anything but the best. Briefly their eyes locked, and he turned away quickly, trying to think of the best way to make his move, but when he looked up to his surprise she was moving towards him, a big smile on her face.

Putting down his drink, he smoothed his shirt and straightened his tie. At the edge of the dance floor, he pushed another would-be suitor out of the way. She was even better in person, with bright blue or green eyes, he couldn't tell. They both began dancing, standing a foot apart.

"Evening, Miss," he said suavely.

"Hiya sweetie. Fun place, yeah?" He could barely hear her, but didn't care.

"I'm Larry." She didn't hear him, so he repeated himself. "Larry. Larry Watner."

"Lilly." She reached out and brushed him across the cheek; something stirred below.

"What do you do, Lilly?" he asked, trying not to stare at her prominent chest.

"I'm a nurse, work at Gotham Sacred Heart, I'm out looking for a good time." Her voice was sweet and gay, bubbly, without much thought behind it. _All the better!_ Trying not to sound eager, he asked, "Are you here with your girlfriends?"

"Nah, I wanted to go out alone, less competition that way." If she knew or was acquainted with anyone who could possibly be competition for her, he'd seriously consider coming to Gotham for good.

"You want some drinks?" she asked.

That put him in a tight spot; he had to drive to D.C. at the crack of dawn and would be better off passing tonight, but-- "Alright, but I can't have too much tonight."

"No problem." They went up to the bar, where Lilly leaned over and said, "Two daiquiris, please."

Smiling, he said, "I can handle a daiquiri." As she turned away, he took the opportunity to enjoy the view from behind. _What. an. ass. _

Lilly turned around, still fumbling with her purse. "What did you say?"

"Nothing." The bartender gave him the drinks as they sat down on neighboring stools. "So what do you do, Larry?" Lilly asked.

Larry took a sip and then said, "I'm a lobbyist in D.C. Here in Gotham for a meeting, just needed to get out of the hotel. Ouch!" Someone had kicked him in the shin!

"Watch where you're going," he yelled, turning around to see who had done it. When he turned back, he continued: "Just trying to keep the government off our client's backs, you know how it is." He took a sip, and paused: his drink tasted different, somehow; there seemed to be more alcohol than there ought to be. Suddenly, she got off her stool and came up to him.

"What's wrong?" she asked. Even in the wild environment of the club, he could smell her fragrant perfume.

"My drink's no good, I'll get another one--" He didn't finish his sentence, as Lilly snitched it out of his hands, sniffed it, and sipped.

"Taste's ok to me. Here, you want mine instead?" She handed him his drink.

"Thanks!" He took a sip; it still tasted strange. _Oh well, don't drive her away!_ "So, you want to take off, go someplace where we can get some privacy?" He tried to relax as he waited for her response.

She shook her head. "Actually, I have to be at the midnight shift at the hospital in an hour."

"What? Really?" Was she dumping him? _What did I do wrong? _Before he could say anything else, she drew closer.

"I'm sorry, but how about this--" Now she was next to him, arms around his neck, her breath falling on his face. I'll meet you in your hotel at 7, and we can have a quick one," Lilly said, her voice husky.

Another buzz started to fill him, and not just his face. Then he swore. "Damn, I have to check out at 6:30!" Hesitating, he said: "Can you swing by at 6?"

Quickly she kissed him on the lips. "Sure. Let's go." He followed her to the exit, enjoying watching her move. As he stepped out into the cool air, he felt unusually drowsy. "Wait, here's my hotel number," he said, his voice slurred. A cab came up, and as he said his room number she stuffed him inside.

"Great, see you then."

"Bye, Lilly!" He strained to look out the rear window, hoping to get another gaze at her form.

* * *

The next morning, Larry woke up to the worst hangover he'd ever had in his life. Blinking, everything was blurry, and his stomach was doing cartwheels. Fumbling, he turned his head and saw it was 7:10. _Damn!_ Immediately he exploded into action, throwing everything into a suitcase and hastily putting on his smoke-scented suit. Before he could leave, however, the nausea became so strong he rushed to the toilet and puked. "What the hell did I eat," he wondered, taking some Maalox. Rushing to the elevator, he was briefly angry that Lilly had stood him up, but as the details of her scarlet beauty became clearer in his memory, he vowed to give her another try. _'Gotham Sacred Heart', that must be a hospital, I can find her info later this week. That's the ticket..._

His arousal soon gave way to nausea again, however. After checking out, he felt so lousy he didn't want to drive at all, but he had to be in Washington by 9 to meet with a Senator that he was planning to 'persuade', and he'd barely make it as is. Hands shaking, he pulled out of the hotel parking lot and found the entrance to the bridge that would take him across the East River to the interstate. His vision became blurrier and blurrier, until he actually started blacking out.

"What the hell?" Bewilderment rapidly gave way to panic as his vision failed completely. "I can't see!" he cried. He was on a bridge going 50 and he was blind--he had to stop. He slammed on the brakes, and the car began to spin. Frantically turning the wheel, he heard the honks of cars whizzing by, then finally it came to a halt.

As soon as he did so, a lumbering truck on the other side of the road slammed into his stationary Porsche, shattering it into a thousand pieces of broken metal, glass, plastic and flesh.

* * *

Yawning, Pamela got out of bed and turned on her TV, waiting for the noon news. Soon, a somber newsman said: "Leading the news, a fatal accident on the Westmont Bridge this morning. The driver, a man identified as Larry Watner, apparently lost control of his vehicle and skidded into opposing traffic, where a large truck ran into him." Pictures showed the mangled remains of a car smashed up against the side of the bridge, with a flurry of emergency response vehicles and personnel nearby. "He was pronounced dead at the scene. Police are saying alcohol may have been involved. For eastbound commuters, you are advised to detour and take the Washington Crossway until 4PM today--" 

She switched it off, a warm feeling of satisfaction filling her. The methanol she had spiked his drink with had worked out better than expected: instead of just dying in his hotel room, he had decided to drive just as the toxic byproducts of metabolized methanol began destroying his optic nerves, no doubt blinding him and causing the crash. If the police even bothered to do an autopsy on his mangled remains, they would probably think the methanol was a lab mistake. Looking for further details online, she saw that there was as yet no mention of suspicions of foul play or searching for persons of interest--they were treating it as an accident. She had executed her mission to perfection.

Turning to her ferns and other plants, Pamela said sweetly: "You see, my darlings? I'm avenging all your fallen brothers and sisters. This is just the beginning." Knocking off Staughton and Watner had proved trivially easy; her next target would likely be a much tougher assignment. Still, she was becoming supremely confident in her growing abilities.

"Oh yes, Mister Hayashi," she whispered to her floral audience. "Your days are definitely numbered."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

**

* * *

**The first step is always the hardest.

Pamela Isley had spent the better part of a year designing and manufacturing the basic form of the capsule, and had she not managed to find a biologically compatible adhesive all that work would have been in vain. Once the tests of encapsulated cells had been successful, however, creating new cultures was a simple matter of manipulating the genetic mechanism of the yeast cells to produce whatever toxins and antitoxins she desired. Like some manic junkie, she injected herself over and over with various encapsulated cell lines, cells that would protect her against everything from strychnine to tear gas. Of course, there were some substances that there was no defense against, such as metallic compounds and acid burns, but at this early stage there was almost nothing that anyone could inject or infect her with that could kill or even incapacitate her. _There are some other things I should work on, like pain resistance and ensuring consciousness, but that can wait for later._

Currently in her new private lab--a perk won merely by unbuttoning a few buttons on her blouse in front of Staughton's replacement--Pamela now worked on methods of attack. Short of time, she decided to concentrate on neurotoxins, which had the virtues of being extremely lethal, fast acting, and absorbable through the skin. After injecting herself with the respective antidote-producing cells, she carefully implanted five different neurotoxin-producing cell lines in the fingertips of her right hand. All used a simple pressure trigger, meaning all she needed to do was rub her fingers together to produce the necessary venom.

_Let's see how it works on mammals. _She rubbed her index finger gently, then waited until it became moist. She then bent down over a cage and stroked a white lab rat on its back. In less than a minute, it shuddered and lay still. Her index finger contained cells that produced batrachotoxin, a supremely lethal nerve toxin produced by the South American tree frog _Phyllobates Terribilis. _For a person, skin absorption alone might not be sufficiently lethal, so she made a note to investigate additional delivery mechanisms. Impressive as this was, it was her little finger she paid most attention to, the one that produced TTX, tetrodotoxin. On her dainty little pinky finger rested the entire plan to take out Hayashi.

Her finger against Hayashi, Inc. It would be no contest.

* * *

The intermission finally gave Pamela a chance to regain her hearing. She stood alone in the packed lobby of Harrison Theater, surrounded by patrons of the Gotham Taiko Troupe who took the time to sip sake and eat copious amounts of free sushi. She stiffly made her way across the floor, her movements restricted more by the tight black qipao dress she wore than the mass of people. The black wig she wore also irritated her cheeks, but she remained focused on the task at hand. Working her way across the room, ignoring the men who tried to pick her up, she searched the crowd through her sepia-tinted sunglasses until finally found him: a short, somewhat portly man with peppery grey hair. Hayashi was talking with several other middle-aged Japanese, but as she sauntered towards him he quickly finished his conversation and began approaching her. 

"_Konban wa, Hayashi-san,_" she said with an exaggerated American accent. The two severe bodyguards flanking Hayashi grinned and started whispering in Japanese. Smiling, he took her gloved hand and kissed it. In a slight accent, he said, "And good evening to you, Miss?"

"Pamela Isley. I'm an admirer of your work."

He looked impressed. "Indeed. And what do you do, Miss Isley?"

"I'm a biochemist, but I've always been fascinated by computers." She drew nearer, pulling down on the sides of her dress so it became even tighter over her chest. "I read in the papers that your conglomerate is expanding in Gotham, is this correct, Hayashi-san?"

Hayashi smiled and nodded. "Our new state-of-the-art microchip assembly plant will be opening in a few weeks." _Along with all your lovely silicon waste that'll be dumped straight into Gotham's East River. _"Your Japanese is excellent, Miss Isley," he continued.

Pamela giggled girlishly and turned away as if embarrassed, "Oh Mister Hayashi, you're just flattering me!" she said in fluent but accented Japanese. He primped her hair again, and batted her eyelashes at him, doing her best to act ten years younger. She remembered from her college Japanese classes that old Japanese men had a thing for prepubescent girls, and she didn't want to disappoint.

Judging by the lewd look on his face, the synergistic combination of an American woman speaking Japanese like a teenager appeared to be working. Coming closer, he said huskily, "No, I'm not--and please, call me Takeda. We Japanese are too formal sometimes." It took her some time to realize that he was trying to mimic a movie actor picking up a woman onscreen. She had to keep herself from laughing in derision. _Obviously Japanese men are just as dumb as American ones._

"Of course, Takeda." Offering her hand, she said in a suddenly formal tone of voice: "May I join you for the second half?"

"I would be honored." He took her proffered arm and they reentered the concert hall.

* * *

As they entered the long black limo waiting outside, she snuggled up to Hayashi, who was loosening his tie and pouring a drink. "So, Pamela, shall we go back to my downtown suite?" 

Her ears were still buzzing, but she had been able to understand him. "Sorry, what did you say?" She wondered if he would take advantage of the opening.

He did; coming closer, he whispered in her ear: "I just wanted to know what you wanted to do now. The night is young."

Smiling, she turned and patted him on the cheek. "I'm hungry, let's go to Shiroi Hama!"

He blinked. "'White Beach'? Is it good?"

"Oh yes, Hayashi-san! Can we go there, pretty please?" She gave him her best teeny-bopper pout.

Like an exasperated father giving in to his over-insistent daughter, he said: "Ok, let's go there." He lowered the window to the driver and barked to the driver in rapid Japanese. They drove through the blazing streets of Gotham, winding their way southwest. The gleaming high towers quickly gave way to seedy low-rise buildings as they entered old Japantown. The name was a misnomer, as hardly any of Gotham's original Japanese community lived here now; today, it was mostly a mass of illegal immigrants from all corners of Asia, and run by a shadowy coalition of crime syndicates. There were hardly any English signs hanging over the mass of stores and businesses cramming both sides of the street, and what few there were mainly advertised the same risqué businesses that the non-English ones did.

They pulled up in front of Shiroi Hama, a truly shabby-looking Japanese restaurant. Hardly anyone was there except for a couple of extremely tough-looking Asian men in suits. Pamela wondered what if any ties Hayashi had to the _yakuza. _To her mild suprise, Hayashi had a clear look of disgust on his face. "This does not look like a good place, no? Let's go back to downtown, I know a much better place."

Pamela quickly held up her hand. "No! I really enjoy the food here. And besides, if I don't get out of this straitjacket soon, I'm going to faint!" She unbutton the top button of her qipao for effect. The other three men just stared in silence. "We can order, and eat in that nice little _ryokan_ around the block," she continued. "Actually, it's not quite so nice; a little bit of a naughty place, if you know what I mean." She wriggled in her seat and crossed her legs, exposing her left leg from under the dress.

Their intense stares suggested they did. Finally Hayshi said: "Alright, you lead the way, we're strangers here!"

"Excellent! Here is the number, why don't one of you place the order, my Japanese isn't good enough." She laughed, but her anxiety was high--the last thing she wanted was hard evidence tying her whereabouts with Hayashi's tonight.

There was a bewildered look on their faces, but they had no objections. One of his bodyguards began taking orders. After she mentioned hers, Hayashi was very surprised. "I had no idea you liked _fugu._"

"I picked up a taste for it when I was an exchange student in Japan." That was a lie; she had learned Japanese in college, and had never eaten any fish in her entire life. "As a biologist, I find it an absolutely fascinating species." That part was true, especially certain key organs in the blowfish.

Hayashi frowned; before he could say anything, she added: "Don't worry, Shiroi Hama has an excellent reputation." In reality it was completely the opposite, an important requirement for her plans. She prepared to give him a doctored newspaper review, but he waved it off.

"Alright, like you said, no worries. You enjoy your _fugu_ and I'll enjoy my _unagi donburi._" They pulled up to the little motel, a shabby concrete building with a faux Japanese roof. One of the guards went in and checked out the executive suite, and then she, Hayashi, the two bodyguards and the driver all retired to the suite, which consisted of a large open floor with spare walls adorned with modern Japanese art. She took out several cushions and spread them out on the floor around the low table in the middle of the room. They all sat around, listening to some Japanese music on the radio and pouring drinks.

"It's warm in here, isn't it?" Pamela said, fanning herself. She further unbuttoned the qipao, revealing her shapely bra underneath. The others just continued to watch her in silence, taking sips from their glasses and lighting up cigarettes. A knock on the door interrupted their reverie, and a bodyguard opened it. A restaurant deliveryman heavily laden with food entered, quickly placing the food on the table and leaving.

_"Itadakimasu!" _As they began eating Pamela discretely removed her gloves and began rubbing her little finger vigorously. Ostentatiously she touched her _fugu_ with her hands as if to examine it, then she put it down and picked it up with her chopsticks. Taking a bite and swallowing--it tasted terrible--she then offered it to Hayashi, who waved her off as he began slurping noodles. Shrugging, she took another bite, making sure to pull the chopsticks out of her mouth slowly, her lips puckered tightly around them. Mesmerized, Hayashi quickly came over to her side and opened his mouth; laughing, she offered her _fugu _to him, and he wolfed it down. The others laughed as well.

As the evening progressed, the four men became more and more inebriated. During the night, she tipsied up to each of them, chatting breathlessly, taking a sip from their glasses then offering the cup to them. Using her tongue to play with their drinks, none of them refused to share. After flirting with each of them, she suddenly stood up and began to do an impromptu geisha dance. Uninhibited, they cheered and whistled.

"So," she said breathing heavily, "how's everyone feeling?"

Hayashi was laughing, having a great old time. "Wonderful! You're so talented, Pamela!" He then stopped speaking, sticking out his tongue and touching it.

Playfully she stuck out her tongue back at him. Hayashi's eyelids fluttered; swaying, he slipped to the floor, unmoving. One bodyguard leapt to his feet. He took two steps towards him when he staggered and fell. The driver had already collapsed, while the last bodyguard, his face rapidly whitening, had a look of fury on his face. Taking out a gun from his jacket, he leapt towards her—

—and fell in a heap at her feet, unmoving as annoying J-pop continued to play on the radio.

Slowly Pamela Isley stood up and straightened out her dress. The four men were sprawled around her, completely motionless. Methodically she examined each of them with detached clinical interest. The driver and one of the bodyguards was dead, but Hayashi and the other were still alive. That changed after she waited for ten more minutes.

Carefully she opened the front door and peaked around. It was nearly midnight, and the streets were deserted. Pamela put her gloves back on and carefully moved the bodies into more natural positions. She then distributed the remaining _fugu _onto their plates, even dribbling tiny pieces of it into the other three's mouths. Finally she gave the room a quick lookover, then left. She took care in walking in the shadows, avoiding any contact with the few individuals loitering about. After a harrowing twenty minutes, she finally reached a large street and hailed a cab. This time, she made sure to pay.

* * *

There was nothing in the morning papers, but the evening TV news on Sunday reported that Mr. Hayashi, CEO of the Hayashi Electronics Corporation, and three other people had died of _fugu _poisoning, a known risk when ordering the rare Japanese delicacy. It was reported in the middle of the news program, between a report on gang violence and another on the latest celebrity rumors. 

Upon learning the victims had purchased the tainted fish from a restaurant that had been cited on numerous occasions for unsanitary conditions, city health officials ordered that Shiroi Hama be closed until further notice.

Pamela Isley could hardly sleep that night. Her plans were going well, so she decided to move up her timetable. Tomorrow would be a busy day indeed.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

**

* * *

**

One chemical puzzle remained unresolved: the possibility of using Atlas in some form as a way of influencing the thinking of men.

At first Pamela was extremely skeptical. Dim-witted though males might be, humans were not moths, and the notion that some undiscovered pheromone or aphrodisiac could override the conscious decision-making of a person was more the stuff of fantasy than real science. Still, she _had_ gone far in using her appearance to tempt men to do things they probably would not have done, and Staughton proved willing to use Atlas to supercharge his libido, with complete disregard for safety. Addicts to drugs certainly altered their behavior to satisfy desires. Could she find a way?

There was nothing mysterious or fantastical about addiction, and part of Atlas' potency lied in its ability to activate the proper neural pathways and keep them open, thus maintaining a prolonged sense of desire. But a target male in such a state would also be largely unresponsive to suggestion; he would, in fact, be thinking of nothing else but satisfying his desires, which was not the kind of behavior she wanted to induce. Thinking about the problem, a better possibility came to mind: simultaneous use of Atlas _and _a competitive antagonist. Just as Atlas would have maximum effect, an antagonist compound would immediately neutralize it, leaving the target male with acute withdrawal symptoms. Now desperate to regain the prior sense of euphoria, presumably the male would be much more responsive to suggestion.

It was a far cry from the mythical Siren song, but it could prove tactically useful. It would require careful timing to use: a target male would have to be showing direct interest in her, otherwise he would focus on any other nearby female for restimulation. Also, she would have to make her request when the suppression effect was strongest, and no later. Once the male agreed to her demands, exposure to a more dilute sample of Atlas would restore his pleasure and thus give him incentive to do as she asked. However, there would be definite limits to its effectiveness: repeated exposure would cause the male to become tolerant, thus reducing its effect. And it was safe to assume that if a male knew what was happening and concentrated hard enough, he could override any suggestion. _Then again, I doubt I shall have much need of them once they do what I want them to._

She prepared the necessary chemicals and mixed them into an aerosol powder form, sprinkling it in her hair. What better way to test it than with her upcoming meeting with Franks?

* * *

"So, you're 'Maple Leaf'. You're prettier than I thought," Quentin Franks said appreciatively. "But then, you must get that all the time." 

"I've learned to live with it," said the tall red-headed woman sitting on the Gotham Park bench. "Call me Pamela."

He knew that name. "Ah, Doctor Isley. Yes, of course."

She raised an eyebrow. "Checking up on me, Mr. Franks?"

"You were one of a few dozen we thought might fit the bill. Honestly, I only remembered you because... of your distinctive name." She smiled at his white lie, but did not raise any further objections.

She stood up, almost eye to eye with him. "No need to tell you how horrible Cataldi Pharmaceuticals is. I want out." She blushed. "I was hoping these," she held up a sheaf of papers, "would speed up the application process with New World Chemicals."

Franks grabbed the papers and skimmed them: they were filled with confidential Cataldi financial and technical information. "Yes, well, I see, your credentials are very impressive." Lowering them, he gazed at her again. "I think we can work things out, but first, I think you to do a little one-on-one interview. With me. Personally."

Her face twisted into a crooked smile. "$500,000 up front, cash in a special account."

He blinked in surprise. "Frankly, dear, don't overestimate your worth."

She quickly came close to him and ran a hand through her hair. A wash of her perfume came over him, and he could feel the hairs standing on his arms. "Are you sure?"

His eyes and throat started to burn, and his heart began to beat quicker. It felt like something was squeezing him from all directions. At the moment. money seemed secondary to--her. "Well, how about $100,000 in installments. Surely—"

"Tell you what," Pamela said, "let's do your 'interview' tonight, someplace very private, just the two--no, just the three of us." Her smile was pure wickedness.

Sweat poured down his brow. "Three?" he said weakly.

She brushed her hair again. "Oh yes, we're going to need a real professional at what she does," she said with a smile. "To make the interview go... smoother."

Before he could speak everything went cold. His vision blurred; it seemed like she was moving further away, even though she stood in place. He resisted the temptation to reach out and grab her.

"We can talk more then," she said brightly, handing him a piece of paper. "Here's how you can get in touch with me. Let me know where by 6PM tonight, and I'll be there within the hour. Don't forget to bring a friend!" She blew him a kiss and turned to walk away.

"Pamela!" Now he did take a few steps after her, but stopped. Looking at the paper, there was an e-mail address, not her real one. His mind rapidly cleared, the pressure fading away. _Three? Oh my God! _It had been a while since he'd had a threesome, and he knew just who to ask. The perfect place came to mind as well: it was important as CEO of New World Chemicals to uphold the wholesome image they had with the public, both in personal matters and business. _Yes, _he thought wolfishly. _No one will hear them scream there._

Walking back to where his bodyguard stood, he said softly, "Clear my schedule tonight. You boys have the night off as well."

* * *

"She's late," Rita said in a bored voice. 

"Shut up, she'll be here!" Franks replied irritably. He paced about restlessly, leaving footprints in the thick creamy carpet of the master bedroom. Outside it was dark, with only a few lights on in the rows of small homes nearby. Far north of the bustle of Gotham City, this quiet suburban neighborhood was the perfect place to have a fun house where, outside the bright lights and scrutiny of Gotham's busybodies, he could relax and unwind the way he liked. _Pleasure is a serious business, after all._

He had briefly toyed with the idea of blackmailing Isley, forcing her to remain at Cataldi as a spy by threatening to reveal her, but decided against it. First, she was their top researcher by far, and from what he had learned little else there would be of use to New World Chemicals. Second, he was very much looking forward to having Isley work for--and under--him personally, and there was no need to drive her away for no reason. The only concern was that this was a setup, some sort of trap to embarrass or blackmail him. Fortunately, the house was equipped with a state-of-the-art screening system, which would catch any bugs or recording devices she may possess. All the food and drink was stuff he had brought personally, and if anything else happened? He rubbed the pistol in his jacket pocket reassuringly.

Earlier that evening, using one of his false e-mail addresses, he sent Pamela the location of the house. None of his official or unofficial bodyguards had accompanied him on the trip from Gotham that evening, just Rita, looking terrific as always. The security precautions had been tedious, but one did not enjoy the private vices he enjoyed while projecting the wholesome public image he did, without knowing how to cover his tracks.

It took much longer than he expected, but finally the bell rung. Going over to the intercom, he heard Pamela's voice. "Enter through the rear entrance, dear, then come up stairs." He smiled; right now she would have entered the automated search chamber, which scanned her for metal weapons, explosives, even certain poisons. A few minutes later, a blinking green light on the intercom indicated she was clean. Pressing a button to let her in, he sat down in his easy chair across from the king-sized bed. He was not anxious, knowing a man of his station always got what he wanted, sooner rather than later.

There was a soft knock, and the door opened. Pamela Isley stepped in, looking radiant in a silky white number, her hair elegantly coiffed. She made a perfect contrast to Rita: flaming red hair to Rita's glistening black, creamy white skin to her deeply tanned flesh, tall and daintily thin to Rita's shorter, more muscular frame. For her part, Rita gave Pamela a look of cold contemptuous indifference. _She's jealous. Good, it'll give her extra motivation tonight._

Pamela said, "I see you brought your friend. Excellent."

"Rita's the best, I'm sure the two of you will have much to discuss and do tonight," he said lasciviously. "I trust you're free for the entire evening," Franks added, feeling confident he could last the evening as well.

"Oh yes." She quickly walked over to him. "Now, about my payment," she said, stroking her hair again.

Inwardly he groaned; having to pay before getting it took him out of the mood. "Now is not the time, dear—" She stopped him by stroking his cheek, sending an electric surge down his spine.

"Oh, but Mister Franks, it's only a small amount, and I would be so grateful," she said. Once again his blood started to boil; it was a wave of desire stronger and more insistent than any he had felt in a long time.

"So very—" she got up, "—very—" twirled around, "—grateful—" lowered a strap, revealing her bare shoulder.

He was shivering, loosening his collar and wiping sweat from his brow. "Well, okay, I think we agreed on fifty thousand—"

"—one million."

Another wave of shock went through him, this one not pleasant at all. "What? You've got to be kidding!" Outraged, he rose up from his chair, enraged, about to throw her out.

"I'm sorry, but no money, and the little party here is over." Twirling her hair, she turned around and began walking to the door.

He took two steps towards her then stopped, as another cold wave passed through him. She was leaving; she couldn't do that! The ridiculousness of her demands immediately lost its salience as an overwhelming desire to please her, to do what she wanted so he'd get what _he_ wanted, preoccupied his entire being.

"Alright!" he cried. "Don't go, I'll do it! One million!" _I must be out of my mind!  
_

Rita snorted in outrage. "Are you crazy, you're only paying me—"

"Shut up, you tramp!" To his immense relief, Pamela came up to him and kissed him on the lips. "Thank you, Mr. Franks," she whispered into his ear. A new wave of euphoria filled him, almost as good as Afterwards. The difference was he was still charged and ready!

"Here's the account," Pamela said, handing him another piece of paper with a string of #s on it, and the name Gotham First Financial. _Of course, a 'Gotham Gopherhole', perfect for those in the business of tax evasion and money-laundering._ He turned on his cellphone and dialed his bank, entering a long stream of numbers. _One million dollars! _That was almost half of his own 'discretionary' funds, but he didn't care. _It's only money! Use it or lose it!_

Once the funds were transferred, he turned to the two women and said grandly, "Showtime!"

Pamela smiled and took Rita's hand, motioning her to the bed. Rita, apparently still miffed at Pamela getting millions while she as his preferred companion was getting only $30,000 for tonight's job, continued to frown as she sat on the bed. She looked rather disinterested as Pamela sat behind her and nuzzled her neck. _Oh yeah! _Franks thought.

Suddenly Rita yelped, "Hey! Watch it!" She flinched away angrily, rubbing her neck. Rita looked at him and mouthed silently, 'Amateur.' Sighing, he closed his eyes, then heard something strange: gagging. He opened his eyes just in time to see Rita go into seizures, then suddenly collapse on the bed motionless. Pamela leaped back, looking bewildered.

"Damn it," Franks groaned. _How many times have I told her to stay off the junk before coming in? _Rita was no doubt the best, but her drug habit was a definite minus. The mood now completely gone, he got up and gestured Pamela to get off the bed. Coming over, he bent down, critically examining her. He poked at her neck, surprised to feel how rigid her neck tendons were.

"Curious. Oh well, we don't need her!" He stood up and turned to tell Pamela to get on the bed, but before he could do so he felt a sharp pain at the base of his neck.

"Ow!" Turning, he found Pamela behind him, smiling. He was about to curse her out when a sudden numbness suddenly flowed out from his neck to all parts of his body: his arms, his legs, his head, all immobile. He fell to the ground and pain shot up his right shoulder, but impossibly he still couldn't move. His body felt dead, unresponsive. With mounting panic, it was becoming difficult to breathe. All he could do was stare dully downwards into the carpet, drooling. Then he was turned over so that he was on his back. Pamela looked down at him, a curiously placid look in her face.

"Tubocurarine," she said, pointing with her left index finger. On the tip of her nail was a sliver of red. "Better known as curare. Did you know it was once used as anesthesia, only the patients weren't unconscious, merely paralyzed? Meaning they were operated on, and experienced the full pain of abdominal surgery, without being able to move." Now she grinned.

An inarticulate gurgle was all he could muster in response to her statement. She propped him up so that he was sitting on the floor, which made breathing slightly easier. "You don't fool me, Quentin Franks," she said softly. "All of you captains of industry are complicit in the ongoing destruction of the natural world. And all of you will pay. You aren't the first, and you won't be the last."

She got up, and now he could only see her legs as his head stared ahead, eyes barely blinking. Right in front of him was the bed, with Rita sprawled across it, paralyzed as he was. "Dear, dear," Pamela said from above. "As my sister, you should have been standing by my side, resisting the machine as it continues to consume Mother Nature, reducing her to poisonous waste. But instead you chose to sell yourself to them, just to make your own lot in life a little more comfortable." Her words were cool, precise and unemotional. "There can be only one punishment for that."

Roughly Pamela flipped Rita over, so that she was face down. "Let's see, I wonder if it works the same with my rat samples. Ah, here it is, the fourth cervical vertebrae. Yes, it should be just the same..."

Franks couldn't see it, but he heard it, a nauseating _snap!_ But not even that could make his frozen stomach heave. _My God, she's totally insane! Please, give me the ability to speak, let me persuade her, _he thought desperately.

Pamela moved out of sight. "Quite the assortment of toys Rita brought tonight," she said conversationally. "Let's see.. ah, handcuffs, just what I need!" She came back to the bed and unceremoniously flipped Rita over onto her back, then cuffed her arms to the bedpost. Then she bent down beside him, looking straight into his face. "I see you're in to the rough stuff. Pity you couldn't control yourself with poor Rita."

Suddenly he realized what she was going to do to him, but all he could do was gurgle again. With surprising strength she lifted him on the bed and he landed atop of Rita, a surprised look on her face, no longer moving at all.

"Yes, you two must have known each other very well, so it must have been terribly distressing when you killed her," Pamela said bemusedly, grabbing his hands and rubbing them against Rita's arms and neck. "Let's see, a gun would be best, but a knife will do." She disappeared behind him. "Ah, Rita's got one, in her line of work she'd need it." Another pause. "Even better, so do you! Perfect!" She came back, then pulled him by his hair until his limp form was straddling Rita.

From behind him, she whispered: "The curare will be wearing off in a few minutes, just after you commit suicide. It'll make a sensational tabloid picture." She lifted his right arm and pulled it back behind his neck. He then felt the cold metal of a pistol in his hand. With every fiber of his being he tried to move, to resist, to throw her off, but nothing much happened.

"Getting feisty, aren't we?" Her voice was still conversational. "Don't worry, my love. Almost there."

Franks could feel his leg twitch. He heaved, but only managed to push lightly against Rita's dead body..

"Almost there."

Tears ran down his face. His throat loosened, and he let out a low cry of horror and rage.

"Almost there."

His left arm twitched, grabbing backwards for Pamela, but he could not reach her.

_**BANG!**_

"There," Pamela said softly. Carefully inspecting herself, she put on her shoes and left.

* * *

The headlines were varied and lurid: 

_**GRISTLY MURDER-SUICIDE!  
MILLIONAIRE CEO KILLS PROSTITUTE, SELF!  
KINKY SEX AND DEATH IN NORTH END!**_

The media was having a field day tearing down the image of the deceased Quentin Franks. Forgotten was his loving wife and kids, the church he went to, the donations made to Gotham's charities. Instead, a parade of seamy stories that for various reasons had been held back now flooded the airwaves. New World Chemical's stock dropped 30 percent the next day, and the SEC was announcing they would begin an investigation about possible shareholder fraud.

None of these things concerned Pamela Isley whatsoever. The deaths of Franks and Rita were no more affecting to her than the removal of a wart, or pruning a weed. _Just one more necessary step along the way._

The time for practice was over. It was time to begin.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12

* * *

**

In her cramped apartment, Pamela had set up a small lab, where every night since her transformation she feverishly worked to finish the preparations for the next phase. To her satisfaction, her cultures had grown to perfection; she now had more than enough. Carefully collecting her cultures and storing them for safe keeping, she then began systematically dismantling everything, taking care to sterilize all her equipment in her miniature autoclave. As she flushed her test tubes with concentrated peroxide, one of her ferns looked on questioningly.

"Yes, my dear, we're going to have to leave soon." She petted its leaves reassuringly. "Don't worry, I'll find a new home for all of you, someplace with more space and light."

The rhododendrons nearby seemed skeptical. Shrugging, she said: "We all must make sacrifices. Even if we don't survive what's to come, it is a necessary sacrifice to save the whole Earth."

In the silence of the early waking hour, Pamela surveyed the site. All incriminating equipment and samples had been dismantled or destroyed. At work, she had successfully pilfered all the equipment and supplies she needed. The plans had been made, the preparations completed. Everything was ready.

All she needed now was a date.

* * *

"Mister Cataldi!" 

Cataldi turned, surprised yet pleased to see Pamela Isley sauntering up towards him.

Running her fingers through his hair, she said: "I missed you, sir."

All thought of his upcoming lunch with the VP of marketing vanished from his mind. "I missed you too, pussycat." He gave her a lookover, then continued. "I see you've been very busy, working hard for CP. I'm very pleased, yes indeed."

She blushed, her cheeks shaded a color of pink halfway between her red hair and white skin. "I'm so sorry for turning you down before, sir."

"And well you should be. But all is forgiven!" She beamed. "I take it then, you wish to, ah, work closer with me?"

"Of course, Mister Cataldi. May I know when the next family get-together is?"

He frowned. "Family get-ahh!" Instantly he smiled. "I see you've been asking around. Yes, the next one is this Friday at 10AM. I trust you'll be there?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Excellent. I'll see you then." He fell silent as he watched her from behind, walking down the hallway, looking better than ever in an attractive black skirt and brown pumps. _Must remember to clear my schedule for the weekend, _he thought lazily.

* * *

For what must have been the hundredth time that evening, Martin Fuller looked down at his watch. It was 12:20AM, and the entrance to Cataldi Pharmaceuticals was empty and silent as a tomb. Only a handful of researchers and security personnel remained in the building at this hour, so as usual he had nothing to do. "Late night sucks," he said aloud to a nonexistent audience. _Next time, don't make jokes about the supervisor when he's standing right behind you, _he chided himself once again. 

Fighting off sleep, it took a few seconds for Martin to realize someone at the doors, trying to get in. Stumbling, he reached for his gun, desperately hoping he wouldn't actually have to do what a security guard in his place would have to do. Now fully awake, he squinted to get a better view, and his fear quickly became delight.

_Pamela!_ The unmistakable figure of Pamela Isley was now knocking on the door and waving at him. With a smile, he turned on the lobby lights and unlocked the front doors, thus giving himself a clear view of her as she strode towards him. Apparently she had been working out, for she was wearing (tight!) sweatpants, a damp grey tank top and a pink headband. A large gym bag was slung over her shoulders, and she seemed out of breath. Unconsciously he sat up straighter in his chair.

"Hi... Martin, isn't it?"

He was all smiles. "Yes, ma'am. Haven't seen you here in a while. Working late tonight?"

"Oh yeah," she said, fanning herself. He watched as her motions made her top billow. "Just had a little late-night workout, then wanted to stop by work."

That sounded crazy, but who was he to argue? "Very good, Miss Isley. Okay, just give me your card and I'll log you in—"

"—Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot my card. Could you just let me in?"

"Uh," he stammered. Technically he had to get her ID, but the last thing he wanted to do was annoy her. Pamela was stroking her hair. Smiling, he said: "Never mind. Just don't break anything!"

She stopped playing with her hair and smiled. "Thanks, Martin! I think I owe you something special." She leaned closer and pursed her lips, as if to kiss him!

"Much obliged!" Martin said breathlessly, struggling to lean over. Just as he got close enough to respond, he was surprised to see a spray can in front of his face.

The last thing he remembered was her smile...

* * *

A loud knock on the door woke Harold Peterson and the two others manning the security console from their stupor. "What?" one of them asked dully.

"I'll get it," Harold said. Slowly he made his way to the heavy door and peered through a small portal. The sight of the visitor put a sudden bounce in his step as he quickly spun the wheel to open the door, and an amazingly beautiful woman stepped inside. _Who is she? _he wondered desperately, _I think I remember her...Romilda? Patricia?_

"Hi, I'm Pamela Isley. I seem to have gotten lost!"

"Oh, yes, well, of course, no problem!" Harold babbled. The other two nodded, getting out of their chairs and coming closer as if to help.

She walked brashly around the room. "Hmm, never been here before. Where am I?"

"Security Operations, Miss Isley," Harold said, his head following her movements. "We watch over the vaults, oversee the cameras, recorders, things like that."

Fiddling with her bag, Pamela nodded and turned to face them, holding a can of deodorant. "Good to know." She sprayed Harold, then the others. Immediately they began choking, then fell to the floor unconscious.

Paying them no further heed, Pamela put on a pair of latex gloves and began entering a flurry of commands into the computer console. She also took special care to completely erase the camera recordings of her entrance into the building a half-hour ago. For the next two hours, she turned off the cameras in certain rooms on the twelfth floor as well.

"Sleep tight, boys," she said to the still forms on the ground. She dropped a couple of empty beer cans around them; when they came to, having no memory of what had happened over the past few hours, they would be hesitant to admit anything had happened to their superiors, meaning that the changes to the security system would not be noticed until it was too late.

Taking the elevator to the twelfth floor, she entered the now-unlocked boardroom, pulled out from her gym bag a small flowering plant, and placed it on the center table. She then went to a nearby office, stood up on a chair and opened a ceiling access panel. Inside the airway she placed a large plastic bag inside, then closed it up again.

* * *

It was almost three in the morning when she went back down to the lobby. Martin Fuller was where she left him, keeled over unconscious at his desk, his long greasy hair flowing out from under his cap. Just as she was about to leave, he heard her stirring behind him.

_Better increase the dose next time. _"Wha— what happen—"

"—Nothing for you to worry about dear," she said as she emptied the can in his face once more. Gasping and choking, he collapsed again on the desk.

She peered at him, considering. Another dose, so soon after the first, was likely to cause brain damage, which might raise suspicions. But instead of feeling concerned, instead a naughty impulse filled Pamela, born of an awareness of her now-arising power. _Martin will soon have bigger issues to deal with. I might as well grant the condemned his last wish._

Pamela leaned over and quickly kissed him on the lips, trying not to wretch. "Don't get any ideas, Martin, I'm not that kind of girl," she said warningly. Smoothly she turned around and left.

* * *

At 9:55 in the morning Cataldi entered the building, making his way for the elevators. Before doing so, he ran into Pamela. Delighted, he said: "Ah, just in time, dear!" 

"Quickly," she said, grabbing his arm. Protesting, he had no choice but to follow along as she dragged him into an empty office.

"What's going on—mmmph!" Pamela kissed him before he could say anything else. When she released him, he was in a daze.

"Huh? What?"

Standing right in front of him, Pamela whispered: "Sorry, sir, I need to run a series of experiments, so I can't make it to the meeting. Hope it's okay."

Cataldi gave her a vague nod. "Yes, of course not dear," he replied dreamily. Smiling, Pamela gently assisted him out of the office and to the elevators. Cataldi still looked dazed as the doors closed in front of him.

As soon as they did so she turned around and sprinted up the stairs. _Any minute now...

* * *

_

At the twelfth floor, Cataldi stepped out of the elevator and walked with uncharacteristic energy in his stride. _Let's get this meeting started! _The others in the room did not look so enthusiastic. As the last of them walked in ten minutes after the meeting started they finally got down to business: how best to bribe local officials so as to gain ownership over an endangered Pacific Northwest forest site filled with suspected rare medicinal plants.

Wishing Pamela was here with him so that he could stare at her so more, Cataldi rubbed his eyes. It looked like a fine white mist was rising up from the flowers in the middle of table. A senior inventory manager leaned in closer, took a big sniff, and suddenly began coughing. The man next to him reached over and slapped him on the back, but it had no effect: now the man was going into convulsions, agonizingly clawing at his throat. A moment later, several others began coughing and gagging as well. Panic rapidly spread as people jumped back from the table. Instinctively Cataldi picked up the phone, but the line was dead. A slight burning sensation was now building up in the back of his throat.

"Out of the way!" With no heed to the other men and women around him, the VP of marketing, Steve Jacobs, made his way to the door, but to his horror it was locked and sealed--no one could get out. Now he sank to the floor as well, gasping for air. More than a dozen bodies lay sprawled around the room, some twitching on the floor, others slumped over the table or in chairs.

The itch in Cataldi's throat became a full-fledged burning, reaching back into his windpipe, and down into his lungs; every breath was like breathing fire, and less and less air came with each breath. Coughing, red drops of spittle flew out of his mouth. Off in the distant, he could hear booming alarms crying out, but no one came to open the door. Finally, the horrible feeling of burning from within gave way to silent blackness.

* * *

_Enough bioharazrd detectors had been deactivated that by the time sensors on the sixth floor detected the presence of an unknown agent in the air and sounded the automated alarms, the toxin had spread throughout much of the building. Much later, investigators would discover that one of the bursting charges in the plastic bag had failed to detonate. Combined with the relatively heavy aerosol mixture used, a far smaller number of spores had managed to spread through the airways than might have been expected. But no one except one shadow of a man would learn the truth: that the incomplete detonation was intentional on Pamela's part, to prevent too high a concentration of spores from spreading too quickly. _

_At that moment, Isley was not yet fully immune to anthrax.  
_

* * *

Panic rapidly spread and people rushed for the exits. Inside her lab when the alarms went off, Pamela evinced a look of bewilderment and concern. She noted with dark humor that now was the only time most of the men who daily accosted her seem more concerned with something else than staring at her or trying to cop a feel. _Of course, you can't get off if you're dead!_

"What's going on?" she asked Lieberman as he ran by, her voice concerned but not panicked.

Lieberman was not so calm. "Containment breach, the building's been flooded with something." His eyes bulged out, a panicky squeak in his voice. "Rumors are it's really bad in the floors above us, many dead. We gotta get out here!" he said urgently, coughing.

"Right." Surrounded by hundreds of others trying desperately to escape down the stairs, she heard more and more people starting to cough. A few collapsed along the way, unable to breathe. Some tried to help them, but most kept going, filled with fear. She had reached the second floor when she began to cough as well.

As Isley exited out onto the street, she noticed a slight burning start to flare up in her chest. Sitting down as others ran wildly about, the burning slowly intensified, but was still bearable to a degree. Soon she was surrounded by dozens of others, many coughing seriously, while some were keeled over and motionless. The cacophony of fire trucks and police vehicles added to the growing mayhem outside the building, and events became unfocused, distant in her mind, as if she were watching a film including herself rather than living the experience

Several minutes later, as the crowds and noise level seemed to disappear in her mind, a blue-clothed EMT wearing a cloth facemask suddenly squatted down beside her and asked, "How are you feeling, Miss?" His voice was terse, the tension in his face palpable.

"Ok," Pamela replied, coughing between words. "Just— don't— please—"

"Calm down, ma'am. Here—" he pulled out an oxygen mask and placed it over her mouth. It helped, but only a little.

"Thanks." But he was already gone. Other medical personnel frantically tended to the sick. She was impressed when she heard someone yelling, "Anthrax! Anthrax!" _Quick diagnosis and response, I'll need to keep that in mind for the future._

The world became blurry; she felt exhausted. Lying down on the hard pavement, Pamela closed her eyes and entered a dazed half-sleep. Some time passed, and she felt herself being lifted into the air, then placed on a cart, and into an ambulance. As the sirens screamed and people chatted in low, urgent tones, even the injection of intravenous antibiotics couldn't keep a small smile from appearing on her face.

* * *

As all of Gotham's media converged on Cataldi Pharmaceuticals to cover the ongoing catastrophe, an intern at _The Gotham Post_ opened a small white letter, addressed to her boss, the editor-in-chief. It took less than a minute for the ashen-faced young lady to run to her boss's office and interrupt his whirlwind of telephone calls. He took the letter from her trembling hand and began to read: 

_today the Earth has Her vengeance  
this is the beginning, but by no means the end  
stop all pollution  
end deforestation  
rethink your lives  
or we shall end them_

_so speaks Green Dawn  
on behalf of the Silent Ones_

_

* * *

_

**End of Part I**


	13. Chapter 13

**Part II: Poison Ivy  
Chapter 13  
**

**

* * *

**

"—I promise we will use every resource available to stop any further acts of heinous terrorism in this city," Mayor Lindsey said to the mass of reporters. "Thank you."

Immediately a cacophony of inquiries rose from them. "Sir, can you tell us what steps will be taken to ensure the safety of Gotham's citizens?"

Uncertainly he glanced to his left at the imposing figure of Commissioner Loeb, who merely frowned. "I'm sorry," Lindsey said in a quavering voice. "We can't discuss any details right now."

"Mayor Lindsey, we have reports that police officials have been bringing in local environmentalists for questioning. Do you believe any of them are responsible for the attack?"

Now he glanced to his right at DA Dawes, who shook her head. Clearing his throat, he said, "Uh, it's er- possible that—" The reporters began shouting louder, seeking to exploit the opening. In the face of their demands and the flashbulbs, Lindsey appeared to crumple, and stepped back from the podium.

Rachel stepped forward to intervene. "The investigation has just begun, and we're investigating all possible leads. No arrests have been made at this time."

"But isn't this guilt by association? Isn't this a violation of the presumption of innocence—"

"—We will be certain to observe every letter of the law as we seek to apprehend those responsible for this crime," she said forcefully. "That is what separates us from them."

Prodded by an aide, Lindsey stepped forward and said in a slightly stronger tone of voice: "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, that will be all." He turned and hurried out, with Dawes, Loeb and several other city officials following after him.

* * *

Inside his office at City Hall, Lindsey croaked: "We've got to do something!" 

Loeb sighed. "Mayor Lindsey, I advise patience, that's the only way we can deal with a problem like this."

His eyes bulged. "How is patience going to stop another attack? Make the citizens feel safe again? I want police deployed to all public transit stations, commercial and government districts. We've got to show them we're in charge!"

"Sir, that may not be the wisest use of limited manpower. A heavy police presence is just as likely to increase fear as it is to reduce it."

"Who's panicking?" he said in a very high tone of voice. "Do I look like I'm panicking?" Before Loeb could respond, he whirled about to Rachel and said: "Dawes, tell me you got a lead!"

Rachel sighed as well. "Sir, as I said at the press conference, we've just begun the investigation. I promise you, once we study the evidence left at the crime scene, we'll eventually track down who did it. That's how you beat terrorism, through good honest policework."

"But how long will that take?" he spat vehemently. "How many more attacks will take place in the meantime? And guess who'll get the blame?" He pointed emphatically at his chest. "Come November, if I go down, you all go down with me, don't forget that!"

Rachel and several others tried to respond, but he ignored them. "Those damn tree huggers! I say we haul all their sorry asses to Arkham, lock 'em up and throw away the key!" His eyes gleamed. "We can do that, can't we? Declare a state of emergency and all that?"

They all stared at him in silent disbelief. Rachel was about to say something about not alienating potential sources or creating sympathy for the terrorists, but decided against it. "I'm sorry, Mr. Mayor, we can't do that."

He glared at her, but apparently having exhausted his limited stores of energy, made no further outbursts. Instead he collapsed into his chair, rubbing his forehead and swearing liberally. She continued: "We've just received word that an official from the FBI's Counterterrorism Task Force is coming up from D.C. to assist in the investigation—"

His head perked up. "FBI? Damn it, if the feds take charge it'll make the city government look bad! We gotta get them on our own!"

"With all due respect, Sir," Loeb interjected, "we may not be able to handle this on our own."

"The hell we can't!" He leaped up and strode over to Loeb, standing on his tiptoes as he strained to reach shoulder height with the imposing Commissioner. "I'm telling you, deploy as many cops as you can to cover critical areas in the city, while you—" he pointed at Rachel, "—bring in and question anyone who might have information. If the feds try to stick their nose in, well, we can't stop them, but both of you, make it clear to the public we in the city government are in the lead in this. Got it? GOT IT?"

Reluctantly everyone nodded. "All right, get to work. Loeb, you tell your men, shoot on sight if you have to." He left the office, followed by a few trusted advisers. Loeb and Rachel and a few others lingered behind.

"Not exactly Churchill, is he?" Rachel said bemusedly at the door.

"After being MIA last time, he wants to be seen as taking charge," Loeb said gruffly, stating the obvious. "But he's right about one thing: I want us to be the ones who get the bastards. And when I get my hands on them..." He squeezed his massive hands together; Rachel could hear his knuckles crack.

"Yeah, then we'd better get to work. I'll leave the street deployments to you, Commissioner. Meanwhile, me and my staff will go down to the hospital tonight and start interviewing the survivors."

"Sounds good. Good luck." They shook hands and left.

* * *

Three blocks from the Cataldi Pharmaceutical building, Lieutenant Jim Gordon parked his car and slowly made his way to the crime scene on foot, wading through masses of curious onlookers and assorted media people. Under a setting sun, he looked up as a police helicopter made its patrol overhead. 

"What a mess," he said softly to himself. The main barricade was manned by a half-dozen SWAT personnel, who stood impassively while journalists shouted questions at them and each other. Flashing his badge, they let him enter, and he saw Captain Reynolds waiting for him. He was wearing what looked like a painter's mask over his mouth and nose, which instantly filled him with unease.

"Welcome to Ground Zero—Part Two," Reynolds said mordantly, gesturing grandly at the abandoned building two blocks away. "Thanks for coming down, that shows real guts."

"No problem, Reynolds, the media's hyping this up like it's the end of the world, I just wanted to see things for myself," Gordon said. "How bad is it?" 

"It ain't the end of the world, but it's pretty bad. Let's go see."

Putting on a mask that Reynolds offered him, what struck Gordon immediately was the huge reams of translucent plastic covering all sides of the structure, dimly lit by a few remaining lights from within.

"Emergency Response came up with something quick," Gordon noted as they began walking towards it.

"All those federal anti-terrorist exercises actually paid off for once," Reynolds replied, his voice muffled. "Trouble is, that represents our entire store of containment materials. God help us if another attack takes place."

"Has anyone gone in yet?"

Reynolds shook his head. "Too dangerous, even for the HazMat guys." He pointed to a few people in white enviro-suits, who gingerly worked near the main entrance. "Place is filled with a very nasty strain of anthrax."

"So it is anthrax?"

"Anthrax—and more. We just got a preliminary report from County Medical." He handed him a sheet of paper. "Don't let anyone else see this, we don't want to start a panic."

Reading, Gordon whistled low. "What about the building then?"

"I don't know. They can't risk demolishing it or even burning it, that would release spores all over the place. Flood it with lye, maybe, but that'd be expensive, and we'd still risk releasing it if they made a mistake." He laughed harshly. "7822 W. 45th and Madison might become a permanent monument to man's inhumanity to man."

"Whatever happened inside, the perpetrator must be long gone," Gordon said. "I don't think we can afford to have several dozen officers and responders here babysitting the press while he's still at large."

Reynolds rubbed his head in frustration. "I know, but we can't just leave that building there as is. Christ, unless we guarded it 24/7, all it'd take is some crazy to break in and he could either re-release or steal the anthrax still inside."

Neither man had an answer to the other's concerns, so they stood in gloomy silence. After a while, Gordon spoke up: "We'll worry about it later. Let's walk the beat." Along with Reynolds, he began manning the checkpoints set up around the perimeter, alternatively trying to rein in the press who still tried to get closer, and get more information about what had happened. 

It had been a very long and harrowing day. Not even during the Narrows did he hear police dispatchers lose their calm like they did when the first reports of what had happened came over the air. Pulling over, he spent a half-hour watching the frenetic news coverage on the TV of a coffee shop, the indelible image of people fleeing the building in terror, coughing and gagging, burned into his mind. The press conference by the Mayor that afternoon had done little to reassure him; widely derided as 'Mayor Limp-Seed', Lindsey was nothing but a hack, and Gordon had no confidence that he could competently handle a crisis like this. Getting back to HQ, the situation wasn't much better, with orders and counterorders flying about, and nothing getting done as a result. Disgusted, he finally took matters into his own hands and came down here himself.

_I want a piece of whoever did this,_ he thought grimly. Fifty seven dead by the latest count, hundreds in critical condition, many of them probably having to permanently live on a ventilator or requiring new lungs. _Unthinkable. Simply unthinkable._

At 1:30 in the morning, to his great reluctance, he quietly sneaked off. He had another appointment to keep.

* * *

"Evening, Lieutenant." 

With a start, Gordon jumped and turned around, staring at Batman. They were standing on the rooftop of a lowrise office building. A mile to the northeast, they could both see the heavily-lit containment zone around Cataldi Pharmaceuticals. _How the hell does he do that? _

"Hell of a day."

"How bad?"

"I'm sure you've seen the news." The Dark Knight nodded. "Well, the reality is worse."

"How so?"

Hesitating for a moment, Gordon took out the piece of paper Reynolds gave him and offered it to Batman. "Cataldi Pharmaceuticals was hit by genetically-engineered anthrax. The initial reports said the anthrax was modified to kill quicker and be more difficult to get rid of. Whoever did this was a genius. A sick genius, but a genius."

Quickly scanning the sheet, Batman handed it back to him. "And you don't have any leads?"

Gordon shook his head. "The building is too dangerous to enter for any long period of time. Some of my colleagues are down at the hospital, interviewing survivors."

"You think it's an inside job?"

"It's possible, we just don't know yet."

"What about the bacteria itself? Depending on the strain of anthrax used, it might be traceable to whatever country or lab developed it."

Gordon opened his mouth to say something, but didn't. _Obviously, there's some brains behind that mask as well. _"I'm sure they'll look into it."

"How else can I help?"

That was the question Gordon had been expecting—and dreading. "I don't need to tell you how valuable you've been."

"But..."

He took a deep breath. "But, this isn't about taking down wiseguys or crooked cops." Spitting with contempt, he continued: "This 'Green Dawn' group are complete psychos, they want us to go back to the Stone Age, and judging by today they don't care how many people they have to kill to do it."

A thin smile appeared under the Batman's cowl. "I know something about psychos."

_Indeed? _"Believe me, I appreciate your efforts, as do a lot of other guys on the force. But this is way beyond Gotham. We've got the feds getting involved, FBI, CIA, God knows who else." He paused. "Get in their way, and they might come after you."

"I'm comfortable in the shadows. Any help you can get to take down Green Dawn, you're going to need."

Gordon was about to risk alienating Batman by directly demanding he stay out of this, but before doing so the Batman continued: "So I'll keep going after the local scum, allow you boys in blue to focus on the bigger menace."

Relieved, Gordon said: "That would be perfect."

Batman shifted, but his expression was otherwise unreadable. "Keep me informed about what's going on," he said.

"I'll try." The Batman disappeared into the darkness. Gordon sat down and lit a cigarette. Barbara would kill him, but he needed a drag to calm his nerves.

_'I know something about psychos', _he had said. _Because you're smart... or because you're one yourself? _It wasn't until after they had stopped the plot to destroy Gotham that Gordon had begun to wonder how Batman had learned about the plot in the first place. The police had managed to capture only one of the plotters, a tough guy dressed in a SWAT uniform, but he had killed himself before revealing any information. When Gordon asked Batman about what he knew, all he volunteered was that he had learned the information from interrogating Crane.

That might be the truth, but it still left many unanswered questions: how did he come up with an antidote to the poison before the scientists at Wayne Enterprises had managed to do so? And was it coincidence that not long after the Batman had emerged, someone had decided to destroy the city for seemingly no reason at all? And that now, yet another mysterious group wanted to finish the job?

Gordon had tried to come with alternative explanations, but it all led back to the same place: somehow, in some way, Batman was connected to the mysterious group that tried to destroy Gotham a few months ago. He had no irrefutable proof, only a mountain of coincidences. If that was true, it led to an even more disturbing question: was Batman somehow connected to the current mayhem as well? Was it part of what he had feared might result from the Batman's actions? _Once_—_the Arkham Incident_—_is an accident, twice_—_the Card Killer_—_is a coincidence, three times_—_Green Dawn?_—_is a conspiracy. And is he a part of it?  
_

He didn't know. But while his head doubted, in his gut Gordon still trusted the Bat. _And that's that. _Nevertheless, Gordon strongly felt that it'd be better for the Batman not to get involved; however implicitly (or explicitly in his case) those in the city of Gotham supported him, outsiders would likely not be so accommodating. Hopefully he would take the hint and not get involved, or better yet lie low until the crisis passed.

_Then again, this is a man who dresses up as a bat. _And such a man was not likely to be content hanging around on the sidelines.

"Crap." He put out the cigarette and headed home. _Long days ahead..._

* * *

The doctor handed her a bag filled with medications and instructions on how to use them. "If you have any additional symptoms, be sure to come back to the hospital at once." 

"Thanks, Doc, I will." The doctor couldn't help but stare as his beautiful patient left the hospital. _Maybe I can warn her about certain 'complications' about her prescription that will need my expert care?_

Gaily Pamela Isley stepped out into the cool summer night, a broad smile on her face "Won't be needing this anymore!" She tossed the bag inside a nearby trashcan and began the long walk back to her place. It had required an unpleasant few days in the hospital, but her indirectly-augmented immune defenses had allowed her to survive what appeared to be a serious life-threatening anthrax infection. Her recovery was fast enough that she had been among the few healthy enough to be interviewed by the police, but given her serious medical condition at the time, not even the most paranoid detective would conclude she was a likely candidate for perpetrating the attack. _After all, surely the terrorist involved in such a masterful attack would not be stupid enough to allow herself to become infected and risk dying, would they?_

"Of course she would." Hours later, when Pamela got back to her apartment, she discovered an e-mail tersely stating that due to recent events, she and most of the other employees of Cataldi Pharmaceuticals had been dismissed, effective immediately_. No problem, I have a new job now._

Turning to her fellow plants, she said: "Ladies and gentlemen, it's time to move."

**

* * *

**

The next morning, dressed shabbily, wearing a dark brown wig and carrying a mound of cash in her bookbag, she made her way to a dilapidated part of downtown, a block filled with boarded-up buildings. She eyed one in particular, a warehouse that appeared to be in rather bad shape. Walking around the corner, she found the office, manned by an old woman.

"May I help you?"

"Yes, I'd like to lease the #4 building."

"Name?"

Smiling, she opened her bag and poured out a couple thousand on the desk. The old woman carefully inspected it, nodded, then wrote as she said: "Jane... Smith. Sign here, please." Pamela noted there was already an 'x' there.

"Five thousand up front, two thousand a week, no questions asked." She took out the requisite cash, and the old woman handed her a set of keys. Going back to the building, she entered, wriggling her nose at the dank, musty stench of old oil and metal.

"The place could definitely use a botanist's touch," she said aloud. "And maybe a woman's as well."

* * *

For the rest of the day, she brought the equipment and supplies she had managed to take from Cataldi Pharmaceuticals, then set up her bio lab in one part, and a small garden in another part. That night, as Pamela was adding the finishing touches to her garden, she heard the sound of the rear door being kicked down. Calmly, she walked to the back of the building.

"Freeze!" Pamela found herself facing three teenagers: one wielding an axe, one a pistol, and the other a flashlight.

"Well, what do we have here?" the one with the flashlight said with a grin.

"Looks like we hit the jackpot," the one with the pistol said, a definite glean in his eye.

"I don't want any trouble," Pamela said, her voice light with apparent fear.

"Too late, babe. Give us all your money. If you've got enough, that may be all we take tonight."

Pamela smiled and reached into her pockets, pulling out a couple of $100 bills. She seductively caressed them, then said: "Here you are boys!" She flung them towards them.

Greedily two of them went down and picked them up. One of them said, "Hey, why is this bill wet?" Suddenly, he and the other went into seizures and collapsed.

"Because it's poisoned," she replied. The last surviving street tough looked bug-eyed at his two friends writhing and screaming on the floor.

"Who the hell are you?" he said, waving his axe menacingly. He took a step towards her.

Licking her lips, she puffed at him and replied: "Pamela Isley." He stopped and began to cough, then staggered and fell, his face rapidly tuning blue as he clawed at his throat. Bending down over him, she whispered into his ear. "I'm to die for."

He gurgled, but could not form any words. After he stopped kicking, Pamela bent down and pocketed the dollar bills, then dragged the bodies to her garden. "I've been needing some fertilizer," she said brightly.

Sitting on the floor, she stretched out and yawned. "I'm going to need some more friends," she said sleepily to her audience of ferns and corpses. "Then we can really get to work."


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14

* * *

**

Batman raced down the deserted streets of Gotham at over one hundred miles per hour, his cape flowing behind him and helping to stabilize the Batcycle. Dodging and weaving, in the darkness of the night those few inhabitants still up and about would have no chance to even recognize him as he flashed past. Carefully avoiding all the known police patrol routes, within minutes he was over two miles away from where he had met Gordon. Finding a suitable backalley, he quickly pulled in and parked the Batcycle, covered it with a camouflage netting, then began a rapid climb up the side of the building with the help of his grapple gun. Ten stories up, he rapidly surveyed the area, checking to see if anyone had followed. With no one in pursuit, he now began a slower, methodical search for criminal activity to break up.

_Stay out of our way,_ he thought over and over again. Gordon had not said those exact words, but the implication was clear. The unstated order filled him with conflicting thoughts. First was a deep resentment at being shoved aside—he was risking his life to stop criminals, had helped save Gotham City from Ra's al-Ghul, and this was the thanks he got? But as strong as his anger was, his mind could clearly see the benefit of following Gordon's words: entrenched criminality of the kind that still continued to choke the life out of Gotham was a form of terror every bit as pernicious as the more spectacular horrors of the League and Green Dawn. Indeed, the average citizen was far more likely to die in an auto accident, or by the hands of everyday criminals, than from terrorism.

_My parents died due to a robber, _he thought grimly. _No matter what Ra's may have set in motion, everything comes down to individual choice and action. _Saving a person from a mugger was no less worthwhile than from a megalomaniac like his former mentor. If the best way to deal with the problem was to let the police and other law enforcement agencies go after Green Dawn, while he focused on apprehending he scum of Gotham, he could live with that no sweat.

What he could not live with—and what worried him—was the possibility that this new terror was something he was responsible for, too.

Batman leaped from the roof of the building, his cape slowing his descent so that he landed on the next building's exterior stairwell with nary a jolt. Rapidly climbing, within seconds he was on the rooftops, starting his search anew.

_Is Green Dawn related in any way to the League of Shadows? _From the moment Gordon had contacted him, the possibility had worried him. Had one or more of the League remained behind to renew their war against 'the heart of criminality'? Was it a full-scale retaliation for foiling their plans? Surely it was not coincidence that just a few months after the League had been thwarted, that another, brand-new group was swearing to destroy Gotham? He had the bad feeling that in the near future he'd be put on the spot with respect to this, but a sudden burst of movement down below instantly cleared his mind of these dark musings.

Even without his binoculars, he quickly ascertained five people moving with apparent stealth, three in front, two trailing behind. They were approaching what appeared to be a department store. A quick look with his scope revealed the relevant details: they were clad in black, two of them carrying tools needed to break into buildings, the other two large rifles.

The two men with rifles was a new factor to deal with: his suit had protected him against the submachine guns most mobsters carried these days, but there was a good chance that those heavy assault rifles they carried could pierce his armor, even from the front. However, to his advantage, bigger guns like theirs would be more awkward to use in close quarters. He waited until the five of them had reached the back door of the store. As two of them began working to disarm security and break the locks, the ones with guns were standing back to back, searching around them--and in particular, looking up often. _I know what to do. _

Taking out a smoke pellet, he flung it at their feet, instantly surrounding them in white smoke.

"What the hell!" The five of them began shouting; the two rifle-bearers switched on some form of search lights, but in the smoke all it did was blind them. One of them began firing blindly into the air, and Batman whistled low as a few bullets hit a chimney not far from where he was. _Heavy rounds, very dangerous._ But it was the opportune time as well. Hurling himself over the side, this time repelling down a rope, he landed right amid the five of them. Following the lights, he lashed out and connected with the jaw of one of the riflemen, who groaned and fell to the ground. His partner whirled about and began shooting wildly, but Batman had already sidestepped around him and delivered a stinging blow to the back of his head. He went down instantly, and as the smoke began to clear he advanced on the other three.

The three robbers had a look of panic in their eyes, but did not run away. Instead, they drew their metal tools and tried to surround him. One of them feinted towards him as the other two tried to bull rush him, but Batman had anticipated the move, and leaped into the air into a spinning roundhouse kick, using his right hand for balance. His left leg smashed into one and his right the other, sending them tumbling to the ground. The other ran towards one of the fallen riflemen and frantically tugged at the fallen man's belt. Batman got up and leaped towards him, just as the other got up and tried to bring a pistol to bear. Firing a few shots, one of them narrowly missing the right side of his head, he screamed as Batman grabbed both his wrists and twisted brutally. A sharp knee to the groin felled him at last.

Breathing heavily, Batman surveyed the five men lying sprawled on the ground. _A little close for comfort, _he thought critically. Not saying a word, he took out restraints and immobilized them. It was nearly four in the morning, and for once he did not feel the pressing need to make another patrol. Running quickly to avoid the approach of sirens in the distance, he made his way back to the Batcycle and set course for the Pad.

* * *

"Do you think they were expecting you?" Alfred asked. 

Bruce Wayne didn't answer right away. Bright sunlight bathed the Pad, and as he read the morning paper he idly stirred the bowl of bean paste that Alfred had made him for breakfast. "It's possible."

"What will you do now?"

He shrugged. "Adapt. Armor alone is never enough—quickness and stealth are just as important."

"Maybe they're no longer afraid," Alfred added.

Bruce's gaze hardened. "Then they're making a mistake."

Alfred appeared taken back by Bruce's hard demeanor. "Anyone underestimating you is making a mistake, Sir."

Bruce took a sip of his green tea, a hard silence in the air. Alfred patiently waited for him to snap out of his moody funk. Finally, Bruce spoke: "Gordon told me last night to stay out of the police's way as they take on Green Dawn."

"Filthy cowards," Alfred spat contemptuously. "One of my old classmates was injured by an IRA bomb fifteen years ago in London. Anarchists, murderous adventurers, criminals, that's all they are."

"Unfortunately, terror can be effective. If only in creating terror," Brice added quickly in response to the dark look Alfred threw at him. "And the environment is under stress, there's no denying that."

"I trust you know there's a difference between being in favor of saving trees, and infecting people with anthrax to save trees," Alfred said crossly.

"Of course there is," Bruce said smoothly. "There is no end that can justify any means."

"Not even fighting crime?" Alfred said with a raised eyebrow.

"Not even that," Bruce said with a smile. Another silence fell between them, each man lost in his thoughts. "It may have just been a one-time thing, but we might have to come up with some new ideas. Maybe we can work on it some more this weekend."

"Very good, sir. And what about them?" Alfred pointed to his paper, the entire front page covered with stories related to the terror attack on Cataldi.

"Hopefully our government can protect us," Bruce said. Far less observant men than Alfred would have had no trouble picking up the doubt in his voice.

"And if they can't?"

Bruce smiled. "We'll see. Unlike before, I don't think I have an inside edge." He said nothing further.

Alfred took the hint. "Yes, sir. We should go, sir, your meeting with the board is at nine."

"Ah yes, my day job," Bruce said wearily as he got up. "Let's go, Alfred."

"Right, sir."

* * *

"I hope that answers all your questions for now," Special Agent Moritz of the FBI said to the small assembly of Gotham city officials. The cross looks on their faces suggested he had not, but that was not his concern. "All right, then, you know what you have to do. Let's get to work." 

The others began filing out, and Moritz called out: "Miss Dawes, may I speak with you?" He gestured towards the petite dark-haired woman, who approached him.

"What can I do for you, Agent Moritz, and..." Her voice trailed away uncertainly, as she glanced at Mortiz's companion, a slim sallow man who had said nothing during Mortiz's entire briefing.

"This is Special Agent Jones," Moritz said with a smile. Jones said nothing, merely nodding. "I want to thank you for helping clarify the roles your investigators will play. The last thing we want to do is cross jurisdictions as we begin this investigation."

"It's no trouble at all, Agent Moritz," she replied. "Our forensics department is completely overwhelmed by the normal crimes in Gotham, I'm sure the FBI crime labs will help get to the bottom of this."

"They haven't had much luck so far," Moritz replied glumly. "But we'll get them, I promise you."

Nodding, Dawes turned to leave, but suddenly Agent Jones spoke, a cool and brittle voice. "One other thing, Miss Dawes, we would like all your office's information regarding the individual known as 'the Batman'."

Without betraying any emotion, she stroked her chin. "Do you think he's involved?"

"Let's just say we have our suspicions," Moritz added.

"I'll get you his file right away. Now if you'll excuse me?" Nodding, she left.

When the door closed behind her, Moritz said to Jones: "You really think they're hiding something?"

"Wouldn't you if Batman was your very own Agent 007, doing the dirtywork that no one else can—or should?"

Moritz considered. "I don't know, if we could get the police to have this guy do some jobs for us, it might make things go quicker."

Jones shook his head. "If he's an undercover cop, any information about Green Dawn he manages to get will go to the police or worse, the press. That won't help us to turn whatever genius is behind the League of Shadows/Green Dawn to our side."

"Do you really think Green Dawn and the League of Shadows are related?"

"Of course they are, why else would I be here?" Jones snapped. "Somewhere out there is a biochemical genius, able to create a devastating fear-inducing toxin and weaponized anthrax better than anything the Pentagon has. We want to take that person or persons in alive, so we can learn their secrets and employ their talents on behalf of the Agency."

"But this Batman—"

"—is too high-profile even if he were on our side!" Jones drew close to Moritz and said in a low voice: "Nothing, and I mean _nothing_ can jeopardize our mission to capture the brains behind Green Dawn. If the Batman gets in the way, you know what we have to do. Understand?"

Moritz didn't reply right away, and Jones grabbed his collar. "Understand?"

"Yeah, I do!" he said angrily, roughly pushing Jones away.

"Good. You have your orders," Jones said coldly.

"Don't worry, I've already started putting out false flags to get the local yokels out of the way while we get to work," Mortiz replied. "Everything will work out just fine."

"Excellent."

* * *

"What do we know?" 

"Not much, looks like the Bat got them."

"Even with the guards carrying HK-G5s? There isn't any body armor in the world that can stop their rounds."

"Our cops tell us they never got a clean hit."

"All right, we'll need to think of something new. Dismissed." The man left.

Rupert Thorne was tempted to swear, but did not. _Nothing to be gained by useless emoting. That's something you can only get away with when you're on top like the Roman was. _He sat back in his plush office seat, considering his impeccably mannered nails and smart black suit. Running a hand through his thick dirty-blond hair, he closed his eyes and tried to think.

_Batman is nothing more than a cop in a batsuit... yet no matter how many times I try to impress this on my men, they always panic in the field. _Of course, it was one thing to say he was a man, and another to encounter him in person on the streets. _Kind of like the lion--not so fearsome in a zoo cage, but terrifying on the savanna. _

Thorne was a prideful young lion himself. The fall of Carmine Falcone had created a power vacuum in Gotham's underworld, and he intended to fill it. Not by taking it blatantly—that was far too crude a move for him, a man who considered himself—with forgiveness to mixing fiction and fact—more like Vito Corleone to Falcone's Al Capone. His organization reflected that philosophy: powerful, yet with a near-impenetrable cloak of apparent legitimacy.

Working through intermediaries, he had done much to weaken the Falcone family's holdings on many of Gotham's lucrative illicit businesses. Once merely a distant second in terms of power, he was rapidly rising to the top. Only three things could threaten that: Green Dawn, the other families, and Batman.

The first was a threat in theory only, and really more of an opportunity. _What a waste to use violence for ideological ends, when it can be so much more gainfully used for profit. _Oh it was possible that these Green Dawn crazies would do something rash, but for now their actions suited his goals. With law enforcement tied down trying to protect city infrastructure and find the terrorists, business was booming for Thorne and others like him. _There may be greater opportunities in the future as well._

With regards to the other families, it was time to start breaking heads. With the police distracted, now was the perfect to time to take out those who were still loyal to Falcone. He had been preparing for this opportunity for a long time, and now the moment was at hand. Moreover, all the violence to come would have an additional benefit: it would likely draw the Batman's attention.

Whatever good he had done for Thorne by taking down Falcone, he was now increasingly impinging on _his_ operations, and that could not be tolerated. The question was, what to do about it? _He was lucky once, but he has to be lucky all the time_, Thorne told himself. More men with more guns, maybe some night-vision goggles—in the end, he would find the right combination, and the Batman would be dead.

"Very good," he said in a satisfied tone of voice. Calling for his men, he drafted the necessary orders, savoring the bright future of a Gotham City under his thumb.

* * *

He was waiting for a sign. 

The attack on Cataldi Pharmaceuticals, and the manifesto from Green Dawn explaining and justifying it, had been a glorious thing. A signal that there were others willing to pick up the burden of defending Mother Nature from the ravages of man.

On the Net, fierce debates had broken out over whether the attack had discredited the environmental movement. _Discredited! Environmentalism's failures are the real discredit, _he thought contemptuously. Still, he felt a sense of shame, since he too had abandoned the struggle out of a sense of hopelessness, and a not-so-secret fear of being caught. But Green Dawn had emboldened him, awakened his once-dormant spirit.

He had skills, talents to bear for the Struggle. All he needed was to find the right person.

It would not be easy; no doubt the organs of oppression were on the hunt for those who shared his and Green Dawn's sentiments. Searching far and wide in the Net, he searched for something that might lead him in the right direction. Finally, late that afternoon on a small chat forum in an old environmental BBS, he found what he was looking for:

**_ bluedusk_****_FE413W221AVE#$ 0124P _**

Blue Dusk... the opposite of which was Green Dawn.

It was the signature of a rabidly anti-environmental poster. FE meant EF—Earth First, one of the few groups around that even tried to fight back. The string of characters that followed gave the place and time, but only in opposite: instead of meeting at 413 West 221 Avenue at 1:24PM, the contact was for meeting at 314 East 122 Avenue at 4:21PM. Checking his watch, that was less than an hour from now. He logged off and hurried out the door, looking for a taxi.

The one he took got him to the intersection at 4:22PM. Getting out, he nervously looked around, wondering if the police had deciphered the clue. Only a handful of people in his cell had that code designation, and as he thought it over, it suddenly became clear who his contact had to be.

At the corner stood two women, one much taller than the other. Their contrasting heights did not differ as much as their garb: the shorter woman was dressed in black leather, her spiked blond hair filled with braids, tattoos up and down her bare muscular arms. The tall woman looked like something out of a fashion magazine: creamy white skin and flaming red hair. Khalfa smiled. _I should have known it was her!  
_

As he approached, the two women nodded and gave him a chilly smile. _Ah Pamela_—_she's __always the opposite of what you think. _Hurrying to catch up with them, he said in a low voice: "It's been a long time, Pamela Lillian Isley."

"Same to you, Khalfa el-Rahim," Pamela said brightly.

"Miss Halley Reinhart, the pleasure is all mine." The other woman said nothing, merely grinning ferally. He started walking along Pamela's left side while Halley walked on the right.

"Was that your handiwork at Cataldi, Pamela?" She merely grinned and nodded. "How did you pull that off?"

"There's more to me now than brains and beauty," she said evasively. "I'll fill you in on the details later."

"What do you plan to do next?"

"I've already done it," she said. "In a few hours, all the patrons of Gotham's Hillsdale Public Pool system are going to find themselves with a very nasty case of red tide algae poisoning."

"Fatal?" asked Khalfa.

She shook her head. "No, I wasn't able to create a lethal version in time. It'll serve as a warning, to those would waste groundwater in trivial bathing rituals."

_That sounds like Pamela_—_ruthless to the core. _"How did you sneak it in?"

Pamela grinned. "Let's just say the lifeguards and attendants were too busy paying attention to my skimpy little green bikini to notice the bags of algae I was carrying."

"Since when do you wear a bikini?" Halley asked, her voice skeptical yet seemingly eager.

"Since it helps me to carry out my plans to save the world. I'll tell you all about it later. I take it you both still remember how to make things go boom, right?"

"Say the word and it's coming down," Halley said in a hard voice.

"You have something in mind?" Khalfa asked.

"Yep. I'll tell you about it over dinner. Let's go."


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

**

* * *

**

_Jennifer McBeal held up the tomato to the lights, admiring its perfection, and placed it in a bag. Searching for more choice fruit from which to make her pasta salad for the businesswomen's meeting tonight, she picked up another one, perfectly red. Squeezing it gently, she let out a yelp as it suddenly collapsed in her grip, leaving behind a disgusting red goo. Shaking her hand, a wave of dizziness overcame her. An employee of Gotham Whole Foods ran to her side and caught her, but she was dead before he could lay her on the floor..._

_

* * *

_

_"You don't look so good, sir. Are you sure you don't want to reschedule this meeting?"_

_"I'm fine!" replied the President of Greater Gotham Power Corporation, Dorian Wilkens. "Just up a little late last night. So, what's the news regarding fuel prices?"_

_The CEO, Santiago Dominguez, fiddled with his glasses and said, "Oil prices have risen 8.5 in the last month, which has negatively impacted our cash flow, but--Sir!" In midspeech, Wilkens slumped over, spittle dribbling out the corner of his mouth. "Get a medic!"_

_Later that evening as he watched the evening news, Dominguez started to cough. And cough. And cough some more..._

_

* * *

_

_At a gas station in Lower Gotham, a man began filling his car with gas when he noticed something unusual: a potted flower sitting at the base of the gas dispenser. He prodded it with his toe—  
—and never saw anything again as the world exploded into a fiery flash. Burning gasoline flew everywhere, engulfing several unfortunate passersby. The owner of the station barely managed to escape as the flames consumed his store. Minutes later, as the first emergency responders were on their way, a burning car at the station exploded as well, adding to the incendiary spectacle._

_

* * *

_

_"I can't stress enough our complete rejection of extremism and violence. Whoever is behind these heinous attacks is no friend of the environment, let me tell you!"_

_"Miss Wang, do you believe that members of the environmental movement are behind these attacks?"_

_"I have no idea who's behind these attacks. All I'm saying is that the criminal violence being perpetrated by Green Dawn in no way invalidates our arguments that we have to do more to stop environmental damage."_

_"How can you say that after all these attacks by Green Dawn?" _

_"Because one has no relevance to the other! The only thing that—"_

_There was a blinding flash, and the transmission abruptly ended, replaced by static. A somber-faced newsman appeared and said: "This stunning footage came from today's press conference at the Gotham City office of the Sierra Club. A bomb, apparently planted by Green Dawn, killed Melinda Wang, the current president of the Sierra Club, and seventeen other people, including our own KTBN reporter Harris Tetlock—

* * *

_

"Honestly, Pamela, I wonder if that was the appropriate action," Khalfa said over the newsman's voice on the TV.

"It was necessary. All who do not stand with the earth, stand against it," Pamela said, her eyes blazing emerald fire.

"Even our former friends and colleagues? Melinda was with us, even if she sold out." Although personally Pamela was not his cup of tea, Khalfa couldn't help but stare into those eyes.

"Especially our old comrades," Pamela said simply. "The only ones close enough to sell us out, are already on our side." She gestured to the three others lounging about idly in the garden. "Those who would denounce what we did, don't matter. And for some in the middle, they might be prompted to join us."

"Or turn against us."

"We can handle that—we just did," she said, gesturing to the screen. Turning to Halley, Pamela said: "Excellent work, Halley. I didn't know you could make a bomb that small."

Reinhardt grinned. "Building bombs is easy. Planting them is the hard part. We have you to thank for pulling that rabbit out of a hat."

"P.I. can be very charming when she wants to be," Khalfa said amiably.

"I still can't get how you could just sneak your way into their HQ like that," Hally said, shaking her head. "Amazing. Men truly don't think with their heads."

Pamela smiled shrewdly. "I had a little help from my chemical friends." She held up her fingers, which almost made Khalfa flinched. _Pain and death are literally a fingertip away for her._ "Now, what about my plan for the next attack?"

Khalfa said nothing, sipping his tea, trying to calm himself. Even Halley looked discomfited. Pamela raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

"I dunno, it's one thing to attack Big Oil and Big Pharma, or even our traitorous associates, but these people_—_"

"—do as much damage to the environment as the worst polluter. More, because they inspire others to consume as they do. Remember, they must all pay."

Halley did not reply. Clearing his throat, Khalfa said: "Although I share Halley's concerns, my more pressing issue is _our_ safety. You may be immune to poison, but we aren't, remember?"

Grinning, Pamela came over to him and stroked his cheek. "Don't you trust me?" she said in a false, sweet voice.

This time Khalfa did flinch; he had seen these fingers that caressed him kill a potential police spy with but the tiniest scratch. "We do, but mistakes are always possible."

Her smile dripped a bit, but her voice remained cheery. "True. But you have my word, you both will be okay."

"Yes, sir!" Khalfa said sharply, saluting. The two woman gave him a wearying look.

* * *

"How's the Mayor handling this latest bad news?" 

"Not as well as you might expect."

"That makes me feel much better."

"It should." Dawes and Gordon laughed, a little too hard. They were talking in a deserted corridor of City Hall, one of several discreet places where they could meet and discuss sensitive issues. Normally they discussed the Batman, but even his exploits were fading in importance to the ongoing emergency.

"I want to know something, something you may not know and probably shouldn't say even if you do," Gordon said. Rachel nodded silently, and he continued. "Almost three weeks since Cataldi, and from what I've seen and what others on the street have told me, the feds seem to be dragging their feet. Have you got the same impression from your end?"

Rachel nodded. "I'd even go so far as to say they're doing it deliberately. After every attack, they surround the scene and take every scrap of evidence they can. Where it goes, I have no idea, but they're not sharing anything." She paused, thinking. "I have this feeling they're waiting for something before they make their move, but I have no idea what."

"They didn't say anything about Green Dawn being able to build explosives?" Rachel shook her head. Gordon swore. "Damn, poison's bad enough, but throw in bombs like this morning, and..." His voice trailed away.

"The feds took away most of the info from the last attack, but some of our investigators were nearby this time. From what they saw, they think the bomb was planted inside the podium."

Gordon's face snapped up. "An inside job?"

Rachel nodded. "That seems to be a pattern with Green Dawn—penetrate the security of their targets and strike from within. But who could be on the inside in both industry and the environmental movement?"

Gordon stroked his moustache. She continued: "We've interviewed tons of people who fit at least one of those categories, but damn few who fit both, and all of them have alibis. We've seemed to hit a brick wall."

Gordon nodded glumly. "Meanwhile, we're doing our best, but we can't protect everything, and street crime is exploding again. It's almost as bad as it was before the Bat."

Dawes shifted minutely, a reaction which peeked his interest. Thinking fast, Gordon said: "Have the feds asked about Batman?"

"As a matter of fact, they have. I gave them our files on the Arkham Incident, so they know what we know."

"Do they think he's a suspect?" Gordon chided himself for asking in such an urgent tone, but he had to know, one way or the other.

Rachel didn't answer for a long time. Then she said: "At first I thought so, but from listening to the FBI man here in Gotham, I don't know anymore. I'm sure they don't want him to get involved, although given their record to date, they could probably use the help."

Her answer didn't fully assuage his concerns, but he allowed himself to relax anyway. "Next time I see him, I'll remind him again to stay out of the way."

"Didn't he agree to do so the first time?" She sounded surprised.

Smiling, Gordon replied: "He did, but it can't hurt to refresh his memory."

"I agree," Dawes said curtly.

"All right then. Good day, Miss Dawes."

"And to you Lieutenant."

* * *

The sun was rapidly setting over the West Side of Gotham, affording Bruce Wayne a spectacular view. At the moment, though he was staring outward from the living room of the Pad, he couldn't really enjoy the scenery. Instead, his mind was elsewhere, furiously concentrating. 

Noticing that Master Wayne had remained silent and moving for almost a half hour, Alfred stood a respectable distance behind him and called out: "Do you need anything, sir?"

For a moment, Bruce did not respond, then he slowly, almost imperceptibly, shook his head. Shrugging, Alfred turned to leave.

"Rachel told me to stay out of it," Bruce said simply.

Turning to face him, Alfred said: "Excuse me?"

Bruce turned to face him. "She called, just before I left the office. Wanted to say hello, how you doing, nice stuff like that."

"What did she say, exactly?"

Grimacing, Bruce closed his eyes and said in a higher tone of voice: "'As head of Wayne Enterprises, make sure you take care of yourself, Bruce Wayne. Don't do anything that could put you at risk, we'll handle it, okay?'" Opening his eyes, he said, unsmiling: "Or something like that."

"Lieutenant Gordon had a similar message, did he not?"

"Yep. Whether he told Rachel to remind me or not, I don't know." It had been a small shock to receive a personal call from her, one of the few since she had both revealed her feelings for him, and ultimately pushed him away. His own feelings were terribly conflicted: until she had spoken to him in the ruins of Wayne Manor, he had assumed his relationship with her was pretty much the same it had been since childhood: warm friendship, tempered by time and tragedy. _But romance?_

At first, her words made perfect sense and he was content to leave it at that. But in the weeks that followed, even while on the prowl as the Batman, the vision of a life with Rachel continued to pop up, unbidden, even in his dreams. _The kind of life I could have had if my parents hadn't died_—_but if that were the case, would I even have given her a second thought, with her being a daughter of the help? But they _are_ dead, so she is my last link to that life (besides Alfred). But now I have a _new_ life as Batman, one that has already put her life at risk! How could I possibly ask her to share in that? _He couldn't, not now. But some part of him still wanted it. Did she? 'Maybe when Gotham no longer needs Batman,' she had said. _That sounds like a no. But is it a 'No.' or a 'No...'? _

All that aside, he wasn't just Bruce Wayne anymore. _What is the symbol, and what is my true face? _He had told her Batman was the symbol, and he meant it. She had told him it was his true face, and he agreed. _Ah Brucey, always wanting it both ways! I'm Bruce Wayne_—_and Batman. Consistency is the hobgoblin of foolish minds. But who's the fool?_

"Sir!"

The distant sound of Alfred's voice finally snapped Bruce out of the descent into madness. _Focus on the matter at hand! So long as Rachel isn't in any immediate danger_—_and it doesn't look like she is_—_they could sort all this other stuff out later._

Blinking rapidly, he said: "Sorry, Alfred, just daydreaming."

"I asked, rhetorically if I might add, whether you agreed with her."

Bruce then remembered what they were talking about. "No, I don't."

Alfred looked very surprised, and did not reply. Bruce continued: "Nothing personal, but facts are facts. It's been three weeks since the attack on Cataldi Pharmaceuticals. Since then there have been at least a half-dozen attacks by Green Dawn or sympathizers. Dozens killed, hundreds injured, millions of dollars in damage to property, incalculable damage to the psyche of the people of Gotham. Every day the authorities say they're on the case, but nothing. Do you feel any safer, knowing these things? That's a rhetorical question, by the way," he said with a grin.

"I suppose not, sir. But—"

"—I'm not going in cape blazing after Green Dawn, if that's what you're worried about. Come with me, I want to show you something." They walked over to his desk, where at the computer Bruce showed Alfred his recent thoughts and upcoming plan of action.

Alfred stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Very impressive, Master Wayne. If you're correct, and I'm sure you are, they'll certainly take the bait. But why not notify the police? Surely they could handle this?"

"I have my reasons," Bruce said a little colder than he intended. Gordon's and Rachel's intimations that the authorities didn't want Batman involved at all still rankled. Asking for their help was the logical thing to do, but Bruce Wayne—and Batman—would never be solely a logical being. "It's almost time for my nightly patrol. Let's get going, Alfred."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Splendid as the Parkville mansion was, it paled in comparison to the elegantly-dressed men and women gathered inside for the annual fashion community's soiree. A dozen of the most exquisite models and actresses based in Gotham City were the main attraction for tonight's gathering of Gotham's trendsetters and fashion moguls. 

For Anton Stepanovich, gathering over fifty of Gotham's most beautiful people far from the prying eyes of the ever-present paparazzi had been an almost impossible feat. He hated to admit it, but the terrible travails afflicting Gotham recently had made his job for tonight immensely easier, as even the lowest of the low star rags had diverted their coverage to the ongoing terror campaign, and security restrictions had done much to undercut their usual effectiveness. But it had all worked out to perfection: not a journalist anywhere was to be found, and he would gain incalculable prestige for making it so. That, and the stunning new numbers he would unveil would propel the Marat Agency to the top of the stylistic world.

At the front gate, two casually-dressed security guards snapped to attention as three figures approached on foot. One of them shone his light and called out: "Who are you?"

"Sorry we're late," an attractive female voice called out. "Would you mind letting us in?"

The guards scrutinized the three people now standing in front of them. A very tall and slender redhead, wearing a long flowing black number, was flanked by a thin black man with a goatee and braided hair, and a pale blond woman with spiked hair. Both of them wore dark brown leather jackets over their black clothes, and wore sunglasses.

"And who are you?" the guard on the right asked.

"My name's Pamela Isley, and I'm a last-minute guest of Yuri Kamarov. These are my bodyguards, Thistle and Thorn." She pointed to the woman and man respectively.

The guard snorted. By all rights he should have summarily sent them away, but he couldn't deny that the redhead belonged here. "One moment." He called his boss, told them who was here, and waited.

Pamela came closer to the guards, who backed away. "Aww, don't go, you guys are really cute!"

"You think so?" The guard on the phone gestured angrily at the other, but it was too late—she kissed him. Suddenly a voice on the other line spoke. "It's okay, let them in—" Before he could respond, she kissed him too.

"Hey!" Wiping his lips, he glared at her, who pouted back. 'All right, go on in."

"Thanks!"

As the three headed into the mansion, one guard turned to the other and said: "Ain't this job great?"

The other guard snorted. "Yeah, knowing my luck that's the last time a hot girl like that kisses me."

* * *

As everyone began filing into the living room for the evening's official event, people here and there began pointing at the beautiful but unfamiliar redhead flirting with various men. Anton turned to Yuri and asked; "They say she's your guest, who is she? I've never seen her in any of the model registries." 

Grinning, Yuri replied: "That is Pamela Isley. Gorgeous, isn't she? I met her in a nightclub downtown a week ago, said she was temping there. You'll never guess what she used to do!"

Anton rolled his eyes. "Hooker? Porn actress?"

"Try molecular biologist!" In response to Anton's dismissive looks, Yuri said: "It's true—she used to work at a drug company, then got laid off. I'm telling you, she'll be our star model for the next ten years!"

Looking her over, especially from behind, Anton was annoyed that he couldn't disagree. "Now why would a beautiful swan like that be slaving away in a lab brewing potions?"

Before Yuri could answer, Pamela had spotted them and made her way towards them. Smiling, Yuri took Pamela's proffered hand and kissed it, then said: "Evening, _tovarisch._"

Yuri was beaming. "You see, Anton? Beautiful and smart!"

Anton introduced himself. "Anton Stepanovich, president of the Marat Fashion Agency and host for tonight's event. Pleased to meet you, Miss Isley."

"Likewise. Could you point me to the ladies' room?"

"Certainly, down the hall on your right."

"Thank you. See you later, Yuri!" She blew him a kiss and turned to leave. Anton then turned to his aide to discuss some scheduling changes for tonight, when the hostess for tonight, a lovely model named Sarah Sheridan, gestured towards him. Sighing, he made his way to the dining room.

* * *

Once all the forty-odd guests were settled in Anton stood up from his seat. Smiling, he said; 'Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to tonight's gathering of Gotham's most well heeled." 

People chuckled at the lame joke, but the revelry stopped as a tall redhead woman suddenly stood up and began clapping. "Yes, let us all celebrate conspicuous consumption! We all know that the party's going to last forever, right?" Pamela Isley brazenly walked towards Anton, a look of arrogant disdain on her face.

"This is outrageous!" Picking up his radio, he barked: "Guards, come in here and arrest the redhead!" There was no response. "Guards, where are you?"

"They're not coming, I saw to that," Pamela said coolly.

"Who are you?" Anton asked, rage rising in his voice as Pamela stood in front of him, an unusually placid look on her face.

She gestured to the crowd and said in a very shrill voice: "You the wealthiest of the wealthiest, deign to give a few crumbs to your fellow man, while you continue to ravage and despoil the natural world. You are as guilty as Cataldi and Wilkens, and you all shall pay!"

Anton was stunned. "What?"

Smiling gently, she said sweetly: "Who am I? My name is Poison Ivy. My name... is Green Dawn."

A woman in earshot screamed, and the people started to get up in a panic. Pulling off the ornamental bags hanging on her belt, she flung them towards the ceiling. The bags burst on contact, spraying the terrified people stampeding out of the ballroom with powdered nerve agent. Immediately they fell to the ground, clutching their chests and writhing uncontrollably. Outside, Thistle and Thorn had picked up guns from the guards Pamela had killed with delayed-action poison from a kiss or touch, and were dispatching those few who had managed to escape the deadly cloud from above. Completely unaffected by the poison, Pamela calmly walked about as men and women collapsed, many unable to even scream before they died. She noticed that Thistle and Thorn were beginning to be affected by the nerve gas, even after they had injected themselves with atropine._ It works much faster and better when your body produces it automatically. _

A minute later, almost everyone was dead except for a few bodies twitching here and there, whom Thistle and Thorn dispatched quickly. There was but one person still alive: a buxom blonde woman, Sarah Sheridan, who was crawling feebly towards the door. _Evolution at work_—_there are always a few who are favored genetically, and if they pass on their traits to the next generation, the species will be better adapted in the long run. But not this one._

Bending over, she peered into the dying woman's eye. "Why?" Sarah mouthed with great difficulty.

"Because it is either humanity or the natural world. I've switched sides," Pamela said simply, with neither anger or emotion in her voice.

"I... husband... two... kids..."

"Your deaths will bring humanity back to their senses," Pamela said. "If they don't, then your family will die anyway. Either by Mother Nature's hands... or by mine."

Sarah mouthed something, but no sound came out. _I will be merciful this time._ Pamela extended her right index finger and pricked the skin on Sarah's neck. She shuddered and was still.

Without saying a word, Pamela rejoined Thistle and Thorn, who were staring grimly at the carnage behind her.

"I'm sure they'll look all fabulous at their funerals!" Neither of them laughed at the joke. "All right, let's go."

* * *

Almost lost amid the frenzied reporting of the 'Models Massacre' next day was a small item in the business section about Wayne Enterprise's purchase of Hayashi Corporation's remaining assets in Gotham City and their plans to reopen the microchip plant on the East River. Seething, Pamela held up a newspaper and hissed: "Thistle, Thorn, this is our next target." 


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16

* * *

**

For what seemed like the thousandth time this evening, Batman looked down at the signal alert strapped to his belt. As before, there was nothing. Sighing, he began moving to the next area on tonight's patrol_ Am I even on the right track? _

All of this originally had nothing to do with Green Dawn; it was the businessman inside him that had been intrigued by the upcoming liquidation sale of Hayashi Corp's assets in Gotham City. Chief among them was a sophisticated microchip assembly plant that according to financial statements would have been one-third cheaper to operate than normal. Always on the hunt for bargains, some further investigations had revealed the real reason why it would be so cheap to operate: the plant's silicon byproducts apparently would be dumped directly into the East River. Seeing the names of those in the city government involved in approving the plant spoke volumes of what kind of business was really going on. Unfortunately, such corporate perfidy was almost as common as murder in Gotham City—and Batman would have bet a small part of Wayne's fortune that there was a causal correlation between the two.

But at first Bruce Wayne wasn't suspicious—merely cynical. Oh, he would have been the first to say that the head of a major corporation involved in shady dealings does not die 'accidentally' of food poisoning, not even in a deadly place like Gotham. But business in the City for a long time had been dangerous at every level, whether you were opening fast food franchises, carrying out multimillion dollar mergers, or involved in the 'business' of organized crime. Wayne Enterprises was relatively clean by Gotham standards, but Bruce knew careful scrutiny would probably find a few skeletons in the closet—perhaps even literal ones. Hayashi Corp's assets might not be clean, but Bruce was sure they could be used to greater ends.

It was only a few days ago a burst of dark speculation finally made this a matter of concern for Batman: what if the people who killed Hayashi were upset not by the business aspects of the arrangement, but the environmental ones? Might his death even have been a trial run by agents of Green Dawn, before moving out into the open? In the growing number of attacks, Green Dawn often (but not always) had used toxic substances and pathogens in their attacks. Had Hayashi been their real first victim?

_Ra's had told me once that in life there are no coincidences. _Batman never really believed that, but the pieces fit together just enough that he decided to play the hunch. It had seemed such a good idea, but even if it didn't work out, to be doing _something_ against Green Dawn gave him a strong sense of satisfaction. It also helped deflect the anger he still felt towards Gordon and Rachel for cutting him out.

Now, however, a week had passed by and nothing had happened. He had discretely equipped the perimeter of the Hayashi chip plant site with motion sensors to detect any unusual movements, but in seven days, not even a false alarm. Batman felt foolish, even angry at himself. Every day that passed by made the anticipation—and dread—even stronger, and more than once in the past week it had lead him to lose focus and concentration. In his line of work, such a mistake could easily be a permanent one.

_Patience! Focus on the task at hand!_ With difficulty he put all thoughts of Green Dawn out of his mind for the moment, and was promptly rewarded for doing so: on the street below, a darkly dressed individual was paying a little too much attention to the rear door of an apartment building across the street. Silently, he lowered a rope off the roof of the building and rappelled down to the street below.

The individual pulled out a crowbar and began probing the locks of the door. Quiet as night, Batman sneaked up behind him.

"Let me guess, lost your keys, right?"

The individual spun around, a wild look of terror in his face. His hand fumbled towards his jacket pocket, but a solid uppercut dropped him with barely a grunt. _If only every night was this easy. _Cuffing him, Batman was in an unusually good mood, so much so it took a few seconds before he saw the green flashing light on his belt. He froze, momentarily paralyzed.

_Showtime._

Unfreezing, Batman ran.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Batman gazed at the vast form of the Hayashi chip plant, complete on the outside yet utterly dark and still. For the past week he had patrolled the areas nearby, so that he could respond quickly in the event of a night like this, but it had taken longer than he anticipated. Taking out his binoculars, he searched the northern part of the factory where the alarm had gone off. In the distance, he saw something: three figures racing away through the north gate. _Right next to the main power lines. Damn—_

A massive explosion turned night into day.

—_I'm too late._ Without further delay, he ran after them. The three figures were running towards a dilapidated truck across the street. One got in, then another. _Faster! _Running as hard as he can, he reached the street in front of the truck as the last figure scrambled in and the truck screamed to life. It was heading straight for him.

Batman crouched low, wriggling off his gloves, concentrating furiously; there was only a slim chance this would work, and if it didn't, at best they'd escape, at worst... The truck bared down on him. Batman waited. _Almost... Now! _Inches away, he tumbled off to the side and, gloves in hand, slashed at the left tires with the scallops protruding from the gloves. His arms jerked in agony; it felt like they were being torn out of their sockets. But as the truck roared by, he heard the distinctive pop of exploding rubber. The truck spun around and flipped over, crashing into a telephone pole.

Grimacing, Batman put the mangled gloves back on. _Another idea of Ra's that saved me,_ he thought wearily. Cautiously he approached the truck; the door flung open and two of the terrorists dazedly came out. In seconds Batman was on them. It was torture to raise his arms; he knew he'd never be able to knock them out with a punch, so he leaped and struck the nearest one with a flying kick to the chest. He slammed into the ground and did not move, but the other one backed off and pulled out a knife.

_Maybe I should start carrying one too. _His opponent knew how to use his, shifting it from hand to hand, circling cagily, a feral grin on his face. He bullrushed Batman, grabbing his right arm and forcing it away. The pain was excruciating, and Batman was barely able to grab his assailant's right arm before his dagger plunged into his face.

Close enough that he could smell his strangely fragrant aroma, the man sneered, "Say goodnight, Batman!" The dagger inched closer to his face.

Waiting until he had the right footwork, Batman suddenly let his legs go limp. The other man surged forward, out of control, and they tumbled to the ground. Twisting, Batman rolled clear and gave a savage kick to the other man's groin. He crumpled instantly, and Batman got on his feet and kicked the man's dagger clear. Gritting his teeth, he ignored the pain in his shoulders and tied up the man, then went to the truck to secure the other two, who were still unconscious.

Batman squatted down and placed his knee at the man's throat. "Who are you working for?" he asked in a clipped tone.

The other man leered at him and mouthed an obscenity. Roughly kneeing him in the groin again, Batman repeated the question.

"I ain't tellin' you anythin'. You work for the Man," he said in a rather high tone of voice.

"The League of Shadows," Batman growled. "What do you know about them?"

"What?"

He couldn't hold back his desperate urgency. "Are you working for the League? Are they behind Green Dawn?" His hands were shaking as he pulled the terrorists close to his face. "TELL ME!" Batman screamed.

A bewildered expression came over the man's face. "Look man, I don't know what kinda dope you've been smoking, but I want some too!" He laughed. Enraged, Batman raised his arm to strike, but grimaced and lowered it. The man continued to laugh. "Aren't you gonna arrest me? Read me my rights? You wouldn't want me to get off on a technicality, do you?"

"You and Green Dawn are all going down," Batman growled. "Won't be so funny when you spend the rest of your life in prison."

"You'll never stop us, Batty, we're going to kill the Machine, and—" The man stopped in mid-word. Beads of sweat poured down his face, and he began to shake.

Batman released him. "What's wrong?" The man didn't answer; his shaking became more violent. He started to scream. Turning, Batman heard and saw the other two begin to convulse as well.

"What's happening?" Batman helplessly checked him over. Off in the distance, he heard the faint but familiar wail of sirens.

The man screamed in pain. "No! I was loyal! I'd never betray the cause!" His entire face shimmered as squinted tightly and tried to stop from shaking.

"Who did this? Tell me, now!" The man jerked his head, once, twice. Turning to face Batman, he shuddered, then nodded, then mouthed something. "What? Say again?" But it was useless; the man stared back at him with the still silence of death.

The sirens were getting louder. Grimacing, Batman got up and made his escape. _Nothing but questions...

* * *

_

"Does it hurt when I do this, sir?"

"Ungh!"

"I'll take that as a yes." Alfred carefully probed and kneaded, his weathered but sure hands moving precisely over Bruce's battered shoulders. "Well, the good news is, nothing dislocated. I don't think there's any tear in the tendons or ligaments, but you'll probably need a second opinion."

"No, just a chiropractor," Bruce grimaced and slowly rotated his right arm. Already it felt somewhat better thanks to Alfred's patient massaging. "Or not even that." Sighing, Bruce laid back down on the bench and let the cool air blow over him. He leaned over and took a sip of lemonade, then leaned back again and closed his eyes.

"Now what do we do?" Alfred asked.

"Good question. I played my Hayashi card, and now we're back to square one."

"Suicide terrorists," Alfred said quietly. "Worst of the worst."

"Actually, I don't think it was suicide," Bruce said thoughtfully. "The guy seemed surprised that he was poisoned. My guess is, their boss in Green Dawn poisoned them beforehand, probably unknowingly."

"And having failed to escape, they didn't get the antidote and died, thereby telling no tales," Alfred finished. "Diabolical."

"If there even was an antidote," Bruce added darkly. He paused in thought. "I'm out of ideas, Alfred."

Alfred blanched. "Surely you jest, Master Wayne."

"I'm serious," Bruce said with a frown. "If we're going to get to the bottom of this, we're going to need the help of the police department and the DA's office."

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Mister Gordon and Miss Dawes?"

"Yep. They have the information I need. I know," Bruce said, holding up a hand as Alfred began to interject, "I know, they both told me to not get involved. But it never hurts to have another perspective, another mind on the job."

"Never fancied you as a detective, Master Wayne," Alfred said.

"Me neither, but I love a good mystery like anyone." He tried to push himself off the bench, and groaned. "On second thought, better call Doctor Elliot tomorrow."

"Of course, sir. Good night, sir."

"Night Alfred." Alfred dimmed the lights as he left the living room. Lying back on the bench, Bruce carefully reviewed the night's events, telling himself not to speculate, but unable not to anyway.

_Diabolical indeed... whoever's in charge of Green Dawn is one clever—and one mean—bastard._ Suicide to avoid capture was one thing, but to _poison _your own men to avoid even the possibility? Bruce shook his head. _Green Dawn is fanatical in every sense of the word. And they have to be stopped._

On the plus side, he had not only partially-foiled a Green Dawn attack, but more importantly, he was now on their tail... or maybe not. Strictly speaking, he had not _proved_ that Green Dawn was behind Hayashi's murder, only established their interest in destroying the Hayashi legacy. But having narrowly escaped his trap, Bruce was sure they'd be much more wary in the future. _We'll have to track them down, but to do that I need information. How do I convince them to give it to me? _No ideas came to mind, so he'd deal with that problem later.

The last issue on his mind was the most worrisome: was Green Dawn connected to the League of Shadows?

_Probably not. _A dying terrorist was not the most reliable witness, but none of them resembled anyone he had ever met at Ra's headquarters—hardly conclusive, of course, but hardly insignificant, either. What lessened his concerns was the subtle difference in their goals, superficially similar though they were. Ra's wanted to save humanity, even if he had to destroy it, while Green Dawn's priority was the environment, and they seemed less troubled by the thought of destroying civilization than Ra's had. No matter how terrible his methods, Ra's goal was ultimately connected to saving mankind, a priority that was distinctly absent from everything Green Dawn said or did.

That didn't mean that the League (if it still existed) wasn't helping Green Dawn in some fashion, but for now he would work on the assumption that Green Dawn was separate from the League. That was both good and bad—good, because he shuddered to think of the League's resources being used in a terror campaign like the present one, bad because it meant that there was another evil megalomaniac genius out there. _I can't wait to meet him, _Bruce thought grimly.

As he closed his eyes to sleep, another thought came to him. Painfully he got up and accessed the computer copy of the surveillance data from Hayashi's plant. _Maybe I missed something. _Enhancing the resolution and processing the records before the alert was signaled, he found something new: a fourth dot, along with the three representing the terrorists who planted the bomb in the power grid. Unlike the other three, this fourth dot hovered along the edges of the facility, briefly next to the three, then moving off screen as the three entered the plant perimeter. On their way out, they were heading in the direction of the fourth dot.

_A colleague? Cell leader? The head of Green Dawn itself? _Bruce cursed the fact that if he had examined the area a little more closely, he might have spotted the fourth terrorist. _But there's no use crying over spilled milk. _Encouraged by the fact that his powers of reasoning could uncover hidden information, he wearily went to his bed and fell asleep, wondering if there really was a fourth terrorists there, and if so, why he hadn't gotten involved in the fight.

* * *

Khalfa and Halley strode with purposeful anger through the tangled jungle of plants, making their way to the entrance to Isley's laboratories. After a considerable length of time, they arrived. Khalfa knocked on the door, hard and fast. 

A moment later, the door opened. Pamela Isley, clad in nothing but a tiny green bikini and leafy vines that wrapped around her arms, legs, neck and hair, smiled at them and said: "Yes, Thistle, Thorn, what can I do for you?"

'We have to talk."

"All right." Before they could respond, Isley had turned and walked away, heading towards a small garden pool in the center of the room. She got in and stretched out, making herself comfortable in the cold and slimy waters.

"What happened tonight? You said Ahn, Malik and Juarez were captured, but I just heard on the news they're dead!"

"Yes, a pity." Pamela picked up a water lily and peered at it intently.

"They died of poison," Halley said grimly. "A delayed-action poison, that does not work through ingestion, but must be injected."

"Not if you package it correctly," she said brightly.

"Why did you poison them?" Khalfa asked bluntly.

"As a precaution if anyone is captured or decides to betray us," she replied simply. "Unless they get a daily antidote which only I can deliver, they will die. In their case, they would have needed to get the antidote within thirty minutes of the mission's completion time. They were a little late, and got caught, but don't worry, no harm done. Isn't she beautiful?" Pamela said, proffering the lily to Khalfa.

It took all of his willpower not to knock it out of her hand. "How can you do this? We're all members of the cause, you can't treat the other men and women like this!"

"Like I told you, we must do what is necessary. Oh, before I forget!" She got up, licked her lips, and before either of them could react, kissed them both on the cheek. "There, now you've been inoculated."

Khalfa was outraged. "You poisoned _us_!"

"Yes, but unlike the others, your poison only requires an antidote every week." She smiled shyly.

Halley was stricken; she looked like she was about to cry. "Don't you trust us?"

"Yes, but it's not an issue of trust. if we're going to prevail, we must plan for every contingency, no matter how unlikely." Pamela flashed another sweet smile towards them, then turned to put on a robe and walked over to her lab bench.

Following her, Halley asked: "So what about you?"

"Well, dear, as you know I can't be poisoned, but since I am the heart of this movement, if I were ever captured, it wouldn't matter. I'd be dead, and the earth soon after me."

"Pamela," Khalfa said through gritted teeth, "this is unfair and unjust. You never should have—"

She whirled to face him. "Unfair and unjust? If it is, so be it. That is survival of the fitness, right? Only nature as a whole is fair and just, by continuing to exist as the sum total of all life within it. Anything that threatens that balance must be eradicated. Under the right circumstances, that even includes its most devoted servants."

Neither of them spoke; instead, they glowered at her.

"I'm sorry I had to deceive you, but at least now you know." She didn't sound too sorry, and instead of remorse her face had a hard look to it. "But there's no need to tell the rest of our followers, is there?"

Khalfa and Halley looked at each other. "No," they both said.

"Good. Now, we have a new problem to deal with."

"The police? Perhaps they suspected you would hit Hayashi again?"

She shook her head. "No. _Batman_."

Halley laughed in spite of herself. "Batman? just another muscle-headed moron working for the Machine. How could he have known?"

"Unless he's working for the police, and they used him to try and get us," Khalfa said warily.

Pamela shook her head again. "No, if they knew about us they would have been able to spring a much more effective ambush."

"He was effective enough, our team got caught," Halley said, a hard edge returning to her voice.

"Which is why we needed insurance." Khalfa and Halley both scowled, saying nothing. Continuing, Pamela said: "I watched him, after our men died he snuck away, very deliberately avoiding the police. I know the press says Batman's working for the cops, but I think he really is an independent actor."

"How then did he know we would attack Hayashi?" Halley asked.

"I don't know, and that worries me," Pamela said. "We have to eliminate him."

"We don't have the resources to stop him, do we?" Khalfa asked.

"No, we don't," Pamela agreed. "I have something else in mind, something more subtle." And she told them.

Afterwards, Halley shook her head. "Clever, but it's too risky. You'd be walking into the lion's den!"

"I agree," Khalfa said, "you don't have to be involved, someone else can do it."

'I have to do it, no one else would be credible. And besides, it need only work for a short time. Soon, very soon, our final victory will be at hand."

The look on Pamela's face was chillingly cold and bloodless. Whether it was due to those icy green eyes or the knowledge that an ocean of toxins swam within her, able to be unleashed at will, Halley and Khalfa were both too afraid to do anything but nod in silent agreement.

* * *

In their secure office in Gotham City Hall, Moritz and Jones poured over the flood of information gathered from all the agents attached to the ongoing investigation. They paid particular attention to the forensics and pathology reports detailed from every attack. Jones could not help but admire the handiwork of Green Dawn, misguided though their political philosophy may be. _Anthrax, nerve gas, red tide, botulism... whoever you are Green Dawn, you've got style! _If only he or someone like him had been working for the CIA a few years back, there wouldn't be a Castro problem anymore. 

"I still can't get over how they managed to plant that bomb in the Sierra Club," Moritz mused. "No one remembers anything about anyone entering the building improperly. It's like they got a mole inside every target they hit."

Jones hummed in agreement. "No further leads, right?"

"Nope. Everyone in Gotham who might be involved either has an alibi, is too stupid, or dead." He grinned. "Sometimes all three. You're right, it must be some outside people pulling the strings." He pulled out another file. "Those three guys we found yesterday were all affiliated with offshoots of Earth First, and we're beginning to trace their contacts now. I'm sure it'll lead us in the right direction."

"What about the city people?"

Moritz grinned. "Even better news. I've already got the post-apprehension phase taken care of. All we need to do is make sure we get them before they do."

Jones snorted. "We don't have to worry about 99 of them, but no matter how incompetent an organization may be, there's always that 1 who know what they're doing."

"Yes, sir. Don't worry, no one sneezes in this town without us knowing about it. The cops have their hands full with the mob and other crooks these days."

A telephone rang on their desk. Jones answered it, and said; "Okay, bring it in."

"Who was it?" Moritz asked.

"The Grapevine. They've got something." Moritz snapped to attention. Early on they had secretly suborned the detectives in charge of collecting tips from the public, so that any choice information would go to them first and only. Since it was set up, however, nothing significant had come through.

A non descript man in a suit opened the door and wordlessly dropped a few sheets of paper in Jones' hand. He read in silence, then read it again. Putting down the papers, he got up to the window and took a long drag from his cigarette.

"What is it?"

"You're not going to believe this," Jones said softly. "We just got a tip from someone recruited by Green Dawn."

Moritz jumped up. "Serious?"

"Very." He looked down at the sheet. "A Doctor Pamela Isley. Says she was approached by Green Dawn to help them plan an attack."

"And?"

Jones paused to read some more. Then he lifted his head and smiled. "Three interesting things. One, she's an ex-molecular biologist who worked at Cataldi." Moritz's eyes widened, but he said nothing. "Second, she told our guy info about the Hillsdale attack, info no one on the outside could know."

Moritz whistled low. "That the algae was genetically modified? That had there not been a mistake in some gene or something, that it would have killed everyone in that pool?"

"Right on the mark," Jones said. "Apparently, they've been trying real hard to recruit her, and soon after that little revelation, she went into hiding. But never mind that, never mind the League, even. The third bit of info will blow your mind away."

"What is it?"

"I'll say it simply. In their last attempt to recruit her, Green Dawn finally revealed to Doctor Isley who's really backing them."

"And it's not the League?"

"No. It's Batman."

Moritz was shocked into silence. "Batman?" he finally whispered.

Jones nodded. "Batman. I'm going to call Langley, things are getting real interesting here in Gotham."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

_

* * *

_

Jim Gordon was not a happy man. "I thought you agreed to not get involved."

"'Involved' is such a vague word," the dark figure said.

"I didn't know dissembling was one of your many talents."

"A minor talent, no more."

He pinched his forehead in frustration. "So," he said with exaggerated slowness, "you just _happened_ to be in the neighborhood of that plant when they attacked, is that right?"

"More or less." A sudden burst of sirens made both men jerk, but as it faded into the black sky they turned their attentions back to one another. "All right, Lieutenant, you got me. I figured their main targets being environmentally-unfriendly businesses, the Hayashi-Wayne plant would be a likely choice. I rolled sevens."

Gordon nodded, thankful that for once he'd been truthful. "Well, for what it's worth, thanks again. It's not like we've done any better," he said mirthlessly. "The whole force is running ragged trying to cover potential targets, but they always seem to be one step ahead."

"What about forensics? Evidence?"

"As you may or may not know, the FBI has taken the lead in investigation, so they have all the evidence we've collected. The thing is..." Gordon hesitated.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"We haven't heard anything really useful from them. No guidelines, no actionable intelligence. Mainly, cover key infrastructure and try not to start a panic. I would have thought by now they'd have done better, but so far, almost nothing."

"Could you get your hands on some of their information? Allow me to sneak a peek?"

Gordon shook his head. "Sorry, it's impossible." The Batman seemed to swell in silent agitation, so he quickly said: "Not that I don't want to, believe me. But they have things locked up pretty tight in their downtown command post. A field grunt like me wouldn't have a chance. Someone higher up... maybe."

The Batman nodded. "How about this then: could you get me access to the police's regular criminal investigations? Computer access to the police network?"

His mouth fell agape. "What for?"

The Batman actually smiled. "To help cut down on the number of nighttime conjugal visits you have to make."

Gordon laughed despite himself. Then he fidgeted. "It'd be difficult. Believe it or not, they do a decent job securing the network. I could get you one-time access, but a regular connection—"

"—would be a great help," Batman interrupted. "I'm in this for the long haul, remember? We're partners."

_Unequal partners,_ Gordon thought with some indignation. It passed quickly, but now was a good time to raise the issue. "That sounds good, but the thing about partners—"

"—I can only tell you so much." Batman turned away from him, as if to emphasize his words. "It has to be this way, for both our sakes."

Gordon had resigned himself to an answer along those lines. "All right, I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks." Gordon watched him disappear almost before his very eyes. _How does he do that? _Walking to his car, he wondered if DA Dawes would help him, and not for the first time wondered why Batman had picked himself and the DA to be his erstwhile allies. _A good cop... a DA unafraid to prosecute... _But that alone couldn't be it, could it? They weren't the only good guys in Gotham City. _What do we have in common? _For many months he'd tried to think of what it was, but nothing came to mind.

No doubt, he was running a risk by attempting to get Batman access to the police's information network. If the higher ups ever changed their mind about Batman, and if he'd ever get caught... then again, he couldn't help feel this was the right move. _Of course, what this means is that he wants to get a better handle on crime in Gotham. Is that a bad thing? No. But_... The alliance he had forged with the Batman rested on a delicate assumption: that Batman's bending (if not outright breaking) of the laws served the proper larger goal of protecting the long-suffering peoples of Gotham. So far Batman had more than held up his end of the bargain, but Gordon could not rule out the possibility that it was all just an act, a clever attempt to pull the wool over the eyes until it was too late. _The enemy's best secret agent is the one you think is working for you, until he stabs you in the back. _Gordon had already exposed the police and Gotham City to great hazard if Batman were really a secret agent for dark powers, and handing over access to the police network would raise the stakes even higher.

There was no logical reason to decide one way or the other, so it was purely a matter of trust. Gordon would have to rely on his own ability to read people, even if they were hidden beneath a mask.

He thought about it a while, then realized it was not an issue at all. _I trust him. End of story._

His conscience oddly clearer, Gordon yawned and left for home. _Good hunting, Batman._

_

* * *

_

Rachel was most surprised by who was at the door. "Bruce!"

Bruce was beaming. "Hi Rachel. Got a minute?"

Nodding, she let him into his apartment. The morning lights were beginning to shine brightly through the small windows of her place. She continued brushing her hair, trying hard not to look like she was concerned over her appearance. "What can I do for you?"

For a moment Bruce said nothing, his face still. "I need a favor."

The smile on her face drooped a bit. "It's about the current... situation, isn't it?"

He nodded. "I got lucky a few nights ago, played a hunch. I need more information about Green Dawn, and you're the one who can get it."

"I see." Now she fell silent, picking up her coffee and sipping it. "I'm sorry, would you like some?"

"No thanks." He stood in front of her, patiently expectant.

"I suppose it was only a matter of time," she began. "You never exactly were the most patient guy. Remember '83?"

A look of pained surprise came over his face. "Rachel! Don't tell me you never looked for the Christmas presents, either."

Laughing, she countered: "Sneaking down after midnight is one thing, but taking out that train set two days before?"

"I wanted to show you," Bruce said in his defense. "And I put it back right away, Dad never knew it was missing." He fell silent, his expression suddenly grim.

Sighing, she said: "All right, I'll see what I can do."

His eyes widened. "Thank you."

She scrutinized him carefully. "Surprised I agreed so readily?"

"Yes."

They were both silent for a while. Offhandedly, she said: "They're dragging their feet, that's the only explanation."

"The feds?"

Rachel nodded. "We in the city government have been almost completely shut out of the investigation. All they've really done is tell us to secure key infrastructure and to bring various 'persons of interest' in for questioning. All of them environmental activists of one kind or another. No one really connected to the case."

"I take it it hasn't worked."

"No, all it does is make us look bad," she said indignantly.

"Do they even have any information?" Bruce asked, a note of alarm in his voice.

"Plenty. One thing you might want to know is that they're interested in you—in Batman," she said quickly.

That got his interest. "What do they want to know?"

"I have no idea. They asked briefly about you early on, but nothing else since. My guess is they don't think you're involved, not anymore, but I can't guarantee that."

He nodded. "Any other information you could find out from them would be helpful," he said tightly. Then he relaxed his body and came closer. "I know this is potentially risky—"

She took a step back. "Don't worry, I can handle myself," she said a little loudly. "Give me a few days, okay?"

He nodded. "All right. Thanks again, Rachel. Bye."

"Bye." Bruce left.

* * *

Agent Moritz reread the reports for what must have been the twentieth time this week. Three days after the Cataldi attack, an unknown individual had contacted Pamela Isley, asking about her opinions of the attack. When she told him her vehement condemnation—not least because she had nearly died from their anthrax poisoning—the individual had hung up. A week later, the individual had come to her place in person, insisting over the barrel of a gun that they discuss current events. He had asked for her assistance, telling her they needed a biologist of her caliber to perfect their bioterror weapons. Fearful for her life, she feigned agreement, but insisted that she be allowed to do the work alone. For some reason, they agreed, and Isley had sent them a defective gene plan for their pool attack. After that she had fled her place, living in anonymity in one of the innumerable slums of Gotham City. But they had managed to track her down, and made one final offer: join them or die. They told her that Green Dawn was but one of their aliases, that the Batman was another one. Their impatience at the slow pace of reforms had prompted them to take stronger actions. This time, Isley had been prepared, and used a hidden taser to kill her pursuer and escape. 

Upon investigating her claims, they had found that both of her places of residence had been poisoned with toxic molds, their doors booby-trapped to spray poison on whoever opened them. Searching the police records, they found one Jeremiah Kramer, an ex-member of Earth First who had died of cardiac arrest and whose body had been found in an empty apartment downtown. Along with her knowledge of the details of several attacks, there was no doubt that she was a genuine source, the only they had been able to come up with.

Isley's information about the Batman was not as complete as in her other reports, but everything she had told them was consistent with the information DA Dawes had given them. And there was one detail that the DA had not included that Isley had: that the Batman had contacts within the police and city government aiding him. With that piece of information, everything had finally made sense. When he first appeared in Gotham, the Batman had deliberately targeted Carmine Falcone, catching him at the scene of the crime, as well as providing incriminating evidence to then-DA Finch that former-Judge Faden was corrupt. How this Batman had managed to come out of thin air and take down Falcone seemed inexplicable, until one realized that Batman was being supplied with information from those within the city government to take down Falcone when before they had been hamstrung by city and government corruption and intimidation from both organized crime and legitimate businesses.

But this Batman-fellow apparently played both sides of the street.

Unknown to anyone in Gotham, the CIA had managed to identify one of the dead terrorists who had attacked the City several months before. The man, whose real name was unknown, was believed to be connected to a mysterious group called the League of Shadows. Little was known of it other than its name, but foreign intelligence services had tied it to a series of unsolved crimes all across Asia and the Middle East. Rumors suggested it was seeking a radical overthrow of society. _Just like Green Dawn._

Batman, the League of Shadows, and Green Dawn—all appearing in Gotham City in a matter of months. All of them secretive, seeking to either 'reform' or destroy society by working outside its system of laws. _All of them are connected in some way, but how?_ If Green Dawn was a front for the League, why was Batman supporting Green Dawn's current attacks when he opposed the League's first attack? Jones had argued that Batman had been part of the League, but either opposed the attack or broke away from the organization. Later, disillusioned with Gotham City, he decided to finish the job himself. It was a shaky theory, but it did fit all the facts they had. _Obviously Batman hasn't told his contacts in the city what he's really up to. _No wonder they had had limited success in tracking down both Green Dawn and Batman—there were leaks within the city government feeding them info to evade capture.

Given all this, Moritz was inclined to permanently eliminate Batman and Green Dawn, rather than co-opting their bioterror experts as planned. But CIA case officer Jones was adamant: the CIA needed their expertise, since Congress had prohibited them from developing it themselves. _If we can use Nazi scientists to help develop our rocket and space program, we can use terrorist scientists to advance our biowarfare capabilities, _Jones had argued. Moritz had nothing to say in reply to that: geopolitics was a nasty, amoral business. _Let the contras sell cocaine to finance their war against the communist Sandinistas? Hey, it'd just get on the street anyway. Support Islamic fundamentalists to take down the Soviets, even if they'd turn against you a decade later? The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Nothing personal, just business._

Moritz had worked too long in Washington, made too many compromises to be shocked by anything. So it was with a clear conscience (his remaining honesty couldn't say a clean one) that he executed the plan that Jones and the others in Langley had come up with. _Allowing attacks against the population to get more information about their bioterror capabilities is abhorrent, but now that we finally have the goods one them, it won't have to go on any longer._ All that remained was to bait the trap.

There was a knock on the door. _Perhaps this will be the chance we're looking for. _"Enter," Moritz said in a tired voice.

DA Dawes entered, a small but perky woman, her dark hair and eyes suggesting an inner fire. "Good afternoon, Agent Moritz."

"And to you, Miss Dawes."

"How goes the investigation?" Dawes had been asking that question for a month now, and until today he had been evasive in responses. But no longer.

"We have some potentially good news," Moritz said. "This information is strictly confidential, but we believe you are one of the few trustworthy enough in the city government to know."

She nodded. "I understand. What have you found?"

"An informant. He contacted us a few days ago, claimed to be working for Green Dawn. Says he has information that will help bring down the entire organization."

Her eyes widened. "Really? How can you be sure he's legit?"

"He revealed information only those involved in Green Dawn's attacks would know. Methods about their past attack, future targets." He paused for effect. "And their head."

"Who?"

"Batman." Before he could finish, Dawes' startled gasp interrupted him. "Miss Dawes?"

"What do you mean, Batman?" She sounded surprised.

"Our source told us that Batman is secretly behind Green Dawn—"

"—That's impossible. Batman might be operating outside the law and without official sanction, but he's no terrorist!"

Her outrage seemed puzzlingly genuine. _Batman must be a good liar. _"It all fits together—Batman, Green Dawn, the League of Shadows."

"What's the League of Shadows?"

Moritz was passive, but inside he smiled. He patiently explained the connections between the three. "So you see, we may have a chance not only to destroy Green Dawn, but Batman as well."

Suddenly, Dawes was calm. Getting up, she paced about, then turned to him and nodded. "I thought he was legit, even though he broke the rules. Many others did, too, although they couldn't say so openly. It seems we have all been played for the fool here in Gotham."

Moritz had a hard grin on his face. _She's playing the game very well. But she's an amateur, and we're pros. _"Don't worry, Miss Dawes. We're going to put an end to them once and for all."

She sat down. "So, what happens next?"

He offered the file. "As you can see, we're going to make contact with our source inside Green Dawn tonight at midnight, bring them into witness protection. Once we apprehend the terrorists, I'll turn over all our information to your office. The Attorney General wants to have the trials here in Gotham City. All the victims here in Gotham deserve to have justice done by your hands."

Dawes nodded. "Thank you, Agent Moritz, that's very generous." She handed back the file to him. "I look forward to this nightmare finally coming to an end."

"As do I."

"Good day, Agent Moritz."

"And to you, Miss Dawes." The District Attorney left. _She's got a good poker face, _Moritz thought._ But not good enough._ Sitting back, he picked up the phone.

"Jones here," the voice on the other line said.

"The package has been delivered. Nothing to worry about."

"Good." Jones hung up_. The fuse is lit._


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18

* * *

**

In the cold dark shed across the street from the Pad, Bruce Wayne sat naked in front of the cabinet holding his suit, eyes closed, mentally preparing for battle.

Earlier in the afternoon Rachel had called him on the BatPhone—his whimsical nickname for the secure communications system Lucius Fox had set up in the shed. Besides Fox, only three others could send or receive calls on it: Alfred, Gordon, and Rachel. Her communication had in fact been the first ever:

"The FBI have an informant who claims you are behind Green Dawn," Rachel had said urgently. "They're meeting him tonight..." He had only barely been able to suppress laughing out loud in sheer disbelief, but there was nothing funny about the next thing Rachel had said:

"...They also say Green Dawn might be connected with something called the League of Shadows..."

_That _statement had shaken Bruce to his core, and for the first time in a long a dark nameless fear stalked his soul. Fear not only of the possible return of the League, but also fear for his relationship with Rachel. He had not her the truth of his involvement with the League of Shadows out of fear—fear that she would blame him for bringing their wrath down on Gotham, fear that she would condemn him personally. When she accepted his dual persona, he had felt relieved of the burden, but as Ra's had pointed out, secrets often have a way of eventually forcing their way to the surface. _Damn you Ra's! Even after you're dead, you still torment me, even through your wisdom!_

The dilemma and repercussions of informing Rachel, however serious, were not the most pressing issue. Of more general and immediate concern was the possibility that he had been wrong, that Green Dawn and the League _were_ connected. _It does make some sense_—_nothing would please the remaining members of the League of Shadows more than to have the government accuse me of all these terrorist acts, of turning them against me, _he thought grimly. It would also explain how out of nowhere a group could so quickly and so devastatingly attack Gotham City. _Then again, maybe not..._ There were too many questions, too many mysteries—it was time to find answers. Unfortunately, the answer Rachel provided could only be obtained by walking into a trap. Of course, even Rachel herself strongly suspected it was a trap, believing that the feds were desperately grasping for straws, and had advised him not to go. _She's right that it's a trap, but she doesn't know the truth about the League_—_and my past connection to it._

So, should he walk in and spring the trap, thereby flushing the conspirators out into the open, or decline the offer? In the not too distant past, he would have confronted them without hesitation, confident that by keeping his enemy off-balance he could gain the advantage. But assuming he was up against an intelligent foe, it would be ill-advised not to think they had adapted their stratagems to counter his own.

As much as caution was warranted, Bruce _hated_ the idea of backing down from a threat. He wouldn't be who he was if it were otherwise. Sweating, Bruce wracked his brain for a possible solution. _Whether it was the League, Green Dawn, the police, or someone else, somebody wants me_—_dead or alive. _He pounded his fist. _Information_; _I need information. Either the authorities made up the story, or someone deliberately fed them false information. I must find out the truth, one way or another._

Suddenly, Bruce smiled as a flash of insight hit him—his enemies had unwittingly left him the perfect opening. _ They may wait for me at the back door, but I'll be where they least expect: __knocking down the front!_

With purpose, Bruce Wayne rapidly began putting on his costume.

* * *

Several blocks from City Hall, Batman welcomed the stiff wind blowing about, kicking up dust to reduce visibility while masking the sounds of his approach. From the vantage point of the skyscraper he was at the top of, he could see at the base of the massive structure a steady patrol of police officers, manning the concrete barriers and keeping a watchful eye out for potential terrorists. 

_Good._ While they did their job below, he would sneak in from above.

Batman unfurled the glider wings he had been carrying on his back, strapped himself in, and launched himself into the night sky. A stiff current immediately started pushing him to the left, away from the building. Cursing inwardly, he altered the flaps as much as he dared. The wings started to quiver under the strain, buckling even, but soon he was back on course, heading straight for the radio tower at the top of City Hall. Steadying the glider, he flew straight ahead, then at the last moment disengaged himself from it. Falling to the ground in a diagonal path to the roof, he reached out and grabbed the tower, pirouetting around it like a gymnast on the uneven bars. After a few rotations, his velocity had stopped, and he slid down the tower like a fireman.

On the top of City Hall, seven hundred feet above ground, a tiny maintenance hatch was the only way in. Taking out some tools from his belt, Batman found the security wire and cut it. Hearing no alarm, he quickly broke the lock and opened the hatch. It was just wide enough for him to go down. Leaping, he landed in the pitch black corridor, then swept the area with his night-vision viewer. _All clear._

According to Rachel, the FBI office was located thirteen floors down. With extreme caution he began the descent, taking the stairs, avoiding security cameras when he could, disabling them when he couldn't. It took almost a half hour, about what he expected, before he reached the floor the office was on. As he entered the hallway, he noticed a dim light bleeding around around the corner.

Cocking his head, Batman stopped to listen—he then heard someone at the end of the corridor, just outside the entrance to the office. He took out a tiny angled periscope, pushed it around the corner and looked. Two agents in suits stood outside the entrance. Both of them looked tense and alert.

_Problem. _The security wasn't as tight as it could have been, but there was a better than even chance the guards would be able to sound the alarm before he could neutralize them. _It'd be so much easier if you killed them, _he heard Ra's' dead voice chiding from a dark corner within. _But I won't._

He considered what to do. _There are times for subtlety, and times for the direct approach._ Deciding, Batman took out a smoke bomb and flung it down the corridor, running behind it as fast as he could.

The bomb landed right at the feet of the agents, instantly billowing dark smoke. The two agents coughed and shouted, but before they could get away Batman was upon them. Two swift punches to the head dropped them. Batman turned to the door, which was locked behind an electronic seal. He quickly began searching the body of the unconscious agent, and pulled out a card from his pocket. Glancing at it, he placed it in the slot, and the door opened.

The office was a large rectangular space, with a series of tables and desks in the center, and several doors along the walls leading to adjacent rooms. A single window at the other end of the room gave a view out to the city beyond. Batman dragged the two bodies inside and closed and locked the door. He turned on the lights and went over to the tables. On one a prominent sign read 'Tips and Leads'. He began rifling through the papers, then stopped—they were all blank!

_Double-double cross!_ All around him, darkly clad figures burst out from the rooms, from behind false panels on the wall, from under the desks. Batman was surrounded by eight soldiers, all clad in body armor not too dissimilar from his own, gas masks and night-vision goggles. They all aimed their submachine guns his way.

"Hands behind your head, and drop to the floor," barked one of the men. Loud _click-clacks _echoed in the room as the others chambered their guns menacingly and took a step forward.

_Worst-case scenario. _He had a plan, but even if it worked, chances were he'd take a bullet—or several. _Don't fear!_

"Listen, on the floor by 3 or we shoot— " Batman leaped with all his strength at him.

The other soldiers began firing, and he felt multiple bullets impact on his body armor. The reinforced composites in his new-and-improved Batsuit kept the small-caliber bullets from penetrating, but it felt like he was being struck by sledge hammers. Crashing into the leader, he wrenched him to the ground, then stood up and brandished him as a shield. Alarms and sirens began blaring out all around them.

"Take him out!" his hostage yelled, but the others did not fire. They spread out, trying to outflank him. Falling back, Batman bent down and picked up his gun. Wincing, he glanced up and shot out all the lights. Disciplined, the others did not fire in return.

From the darkness in front of him his hostage sneered: "No good, Batman, we can see in the dark, too!"

"I'm counting on it," Batman replied. Reaching down, he pulled out a flash grenade and flung it in the air. Closing his eyes, Batman heard it explode and even through his tightly-shut eyelids the room became bright as day; screams of pain immediately echoed through the room. Opening his eyes, he could dimly see the others clutching at their eyes and frantically trying to remove their goggles. With a vicious headbutt Batman incapacitated his hostage, then rushed forward to pummel the stunned soldiers. First one, then another, then another went down. Seconds later were only three left standing. The nearest one to him took out a wicked dagger and rushed him. Batman raised his arms and used the scallops on his gloves as a hilt to parry the blade. Jerking his right arm in, he pulled the soldier closer and knocked him out with a left uppercut. Right after that another soldier came up from behind and put a chokehold on him using his gun. Frantically, Batman spun around, trying to throw off his attacker, to no avail. The suit would protect his neck against a garrote line, but was no good against a blunt object, and slowly he felt his windpipe being squeezed. The other soldier pulled out a pistol and aimed it at Batman, but did not shoot. "Get clear!" he yelled to the soldier choking him; he felt himself twist left and right as his assailant tried to move him into the clear.

His vision blacking out, there was only one thing left. Batman turned to deliberately expose himself to the other soldier. He began shooting; one bullet pierced his weakened chest armor, and a white-hot dagger of pain shot through his upper right chest. But even as the first bullet hit he spun around, and the second and third shots hit the other soldier in his left arm and back. Yelling, he instantly loosened his grip. The soldier with the pistol stopped firing, and in that moment Batman rushed him, knocking him out with a brutal double fist to the face.

Before he could check on the fallen soldier, behind him the main door flung open. _Help's here. _With difficulty he took out a smoke pellet and flung it at the door, then ran at the window. He heard the cops pouring in yell, "Freeze!" then cough as the smoke surrounded them. One of them began firing blindly, the bullets whistling past Batman as he dove head first through the window and plummeted to the streets below.

* * *

Exhausted and in excruciating pain, for a few seconds Batman couldn't do anything but free fall. Finally, he spread his arms and the ribs of his cape solidified, forming the wings of a glider. The pain from doing so made him cry out loud, and he could barely hold his right arm out, but luckily for him he was soaring down a long deserted thoroughfare, and he was able to glide down saefly to the ground. His legs gave way under him as he hit the pavement, and a wrenching jolt shook his left leg—he was barely able to hobble up to his feet. _Sprained ankle, _he gritted. Reaching down, he pulled the straps on his boot tighter to give support, and was able to walk, although not without more pain. Off in the distance, sirens were blaring, getting closer. 

He looked down at his chest, where the bullet had entered. Fortunately, the self-sealing inner lining of his suit had prevented any blood from seeping out, although he could feel the bleeding inside. As he began to run slowly towards where the Batcycle was hidden, he pulled out a pressure bandage from his belt, loosened the straps holding his suit together, then with his left arm slipped the bandage under the suit's breastplate and applied the bandage. He felt the wound throbbing, but the hemorrhaging had stopped. Taking care not to spill any blood on the streets for the police to identify him by DNA test, he hobbled through the shadows, as more and more police vehicles and helicopters began swarming the area around City Hall.

Finally, he got to his cycle and got on. As he did so, he heard a cry of alarm. Batman started up the cycle and sped away, with multiple vehicles in pursuit: a Humvee with several National Guardsmen and a machine gun, several police cars, and a helicopter above. The Humvee began shooting with its machine gun; heavy bullets screeched past his head and shattered nearby cars and building windows.

"Watch it!" Batman screamed futilely. He pressed a button on the cycle's handle and razor-sharp obstacles trailed behind him on the street. The police cars' tires blew out and they spun crazily away, but the Humvee with its steel-reinforced belts continued on. Batman wove through the empty streets, occasionally having to dodge police roadblocks. He didn't know where the others were, but he suspected that they were trying to trap him. Sure enough, more and more roadblocks began appearing. Soon, there'd be no escape.

_Last chance. _With trepidation, he dropped a large explosive charge on the ground, powerful enough to destroy a lightly armored vehicle like the Humvee pursuing him. Immediately afterwards he detonated it by remote control in front of the Humvee, which caused it to swerve off and crash into a corner mailbox.

That still left the helicopter to deal with, which naturally began shooting at him. Frantically looking around, he accelerated to top speed and drove towards a local neighborhood filled with a tangle of telephone and power wires strung across the streets. Behind him, the police helicopter slowed and rose into the sky, sweeping its searchlights across the ground. Coming to a stop, Batman released a smoke bomb from the BatCycle. As soon as it was thick enough, he killed the lights on his Cycle and swerved harshly into an alley, dodging trash bins and refuse along the dark street, while the helicopter began hovering over the smoke. By the time he was at the other end, the helicopter had turned and went off in the opposite direction, searching the more accessible roadways going that way.

Pulling out his radio, he rasped: "Alfred, meet me at Check Point 8B. Now!"

"Acknowledged, sir," Alfred replied. With great difficulty Batman got off the bike. _I hope this works. _Out of the small trunk in the back, he pulled out an inflatable dummy of himself. Inflating it, he put it on the bike, lowered the auto-balance wheels so that the bike was self-balancing, then revved up the engines and sent the bike with the dummy on its way down the street. Without turning to watch, he snuck away into the shadows.

* * *

"93rd and East Cherry, he's heading right towards us!" 

"Do whatever's necessary to bring him down!"

"Yes, sir!" In the distance, Batman on the cycle was speeding towards the roadblock. The several soldiers and police officers manning the barricade tensed.

"All right, let him have it!" The FBI agent began firing with his pistol, and the others followed—but he kept on coming!

"Get out of the way!" The men scurried clear just before Batman's cycle slammed into the barricade at over a hundred miles an hour. A fiery explosion lit up the night sky as the cycle detonated on impact, incinerating the cycle and two police cars.

* * *

Trying hard not to look anxious, Alfred began walking down the back alley, looking for Bruce. This was one of the prearranged hiding spots, in case Batman ever had to hide out somewhere downtown, but so far no sign of him. 

"Alfred..."

Alfred jerked and turned around, horrified at the sight of Bruce. He was sitting on the ground behind some discarded boxes, almost completely naked, a bloody gauze seeping blood on his upper chest. The rest of his body was covered with a vivid pattern of red welts. There was a look of pain and fear that deeply disturbed him.

"It's okay, sir, the car's just around the corner." Alfred gingerly helped Bruce to his feet.

"The suit," Bruce gasped, gesturing towards a pile on the ground nearby.

"Wait here, I'll take care of it." Reaching into his coat pocket, he took out a small bag filled with white phosphorous, poured it over the mangled remains of the Batsuit, then pressed a button on the lid and tossed it on the pile. "Let's go, sir." As they climbed into the car and drove away, the suit burst into incandescent flames.

* * *

"Put those clothes on quickly, sir, we're coming up to a police checkpoint," Alfred said. With great difficulty Bruce put on the silk shirt Alfred had provided. He just managed to get into his pants when they were stopped. 

"Good evening, officer," Alfred said warmly.

The officer peered inside with a flashlight. "Evening, sir. May I ask where are you going?"

"Oh, just taking my charge home," Alfred replied easily. "Busy night out on the town and all that." In the back seat, Bruce gave a weak smile and a thumbs up.

The officer peered closer. "Is that Mr. Wayne?"

Without missing a beat, Alfred nodded and said: "Indeed. I hope you understand..." He wriggled his eyebrows suggestively.

The officer smiled. "Of course. And we're all grateful for his contributions to the Gotham Police Memorial Fund." The police officer pulled his head back. "Hey Janeson! Clear the way!" The policemen ahead motioned for them to pass through.

"Thank you, officer. Good night."

"You too."

* * *

The first hints of dawn peaked through the shattered window of their battered office. In complete silence, Agents Moritz and Jones watched the ongoing cleanup effort. 

Finally, Jones leaned over to Moritz and whispered: "All right, we're done here. Let's go." The two men went down to the basement, got into a nondescript car with its windows blacked out, then drove past the hordes of reporters crowding around the entrance to City Hall.

"47th and West Avery," Mortiz said to their driver. For a while neither of them said anything.

Jones broke the silence: "He's good, this Batman."

Moritz pinched his forehead in frustration. "You don't suppose he had another source?"

Jones shook his head. "Even Batman wouldn't be stupid enough to knowingly walk into a room surrounded by eight Delta Force commandos." He flashed a strained smile. "No, our trap-within-a-trap worked perfectly."

"Almost perfectly," Moritz said sourly. "He got away."

"From the commandos, Gotham Police, and the National Guard," Jones added with a frown. "Not even the formidable Miss Dawes could have done all that."

"We still have some leads," Mortiz murmured. "The wreckage of his motorcycle, what we suspect are the remains of his suit. Now that we have hard evidence, we can trace back—"

"—you mean, like we're doing so successfully with Green Dawn?" Moritz fell silent. "Trust me, this Batman is smart enough to hide those tracks."

Moritz knew it, and wasn't happy about it at all. Fuming, he said nothing. Jones smiled. "Really, you need to hide your thoughts better than that. It's not a total loss."

Moritz frowned. "Oh? You saw the morning news. 'Batman foils FBI!' If we hadn't cleaned out every bit of info from the office before we set up the ambush—"

"—But we did," Jones interrupted. "Moreover, now Batman looks like the bad guy. Eventually he'll make a mistake, some random Joe will see him when he's not looking, and we'll get him."

Nodding, the two sat silently until the car came to a stop. They both got out, walked a block, then got into a beaten-up old van. The two men then began changing out of their suits into some decidedly causal fare.As they changed clothes, Moritz asked: "What about Dawes?"

Jones frowned. "Don't do anything against her yet. Keep her around, we'll keep tabs on her, maybe she'll lead us back to the Batman."

"But Batman got away," Moritz pointed out. "He's not going to trust her anymore, not by a longshot."

"Maybe. But she might be his only source, in which case he'll go back to her."

"I don't like it. You never let a mole hang around, even if you think they're useful."

"Usually. But there are always exceptions, and this is one of them. She'll be useful to us in the future, I promise you."

Moritz tried to object, but Jones waved his hand. "Forget about it. We're here." The van stopped and the two agents got out. They were standing in front of a shabby cafe, the kind typically patronized by hippies and homeless bozos, of which this beatnik-part of Gotham had tons of. "I'll handle this," Jones said softly.

* * *

Entering, they made their way to the back and sat down at an occupied table. "My my, don't you two gentlemen look positively alternative," the female voice said with a faint hint of disdain. 

"Thanks for coming to see us Doctor—"

"Shh!" The raggedy-looking woman glared at them from behind her large plastic glasses. Glancing nervously about, she asked: "What happened?"

"The Batman got away—"

"—I saw the news," the woman hissed in a soft but unpleasantly shrill voice. "Tell me what you're going to do about it!"

Despite the situation, Moritz couldn't hide his bemusement. _Why are sources so often such oddballs? _He felt an odd sense of pity for her; with her frumpy looks and sour disposition, the only thing the Doctor had going for her was that she was very tall, although you'd never know given the way she was slouched over the table. She blended in perfectly with the thread worn, countercultural atmosphere of the cafe—a dirty gray sweatshirt over a tie-dye T-shirt, faded jeans, her straggly-red hair flopping all over the place. _You know, with a little makeup and hairspray, she might be something. But knowing these scientist-types, she'd still probably not be worth it._

"I told you, we'll take care of it," Jones said, gritting his teeth. "In the meantime, there's something we'd like you to do. We were thinking, you should..."

_...Then again, _he thought dreamily, _it doesn't really matter what they're _like_, just what they _look _like. Actually, she could be more than just something_—

"—No way!" she said vehemently as Moritz awoke from his brief daydreming. "You expect me to go back to them? They'll kill me, the Batman will kill me!"

"We don't want you to do anything dangerous," Jones reassured her. "Just keep your eyes and ears open. If you hear anything useful, just let us know, got it?"

She glowered at him, which made her look even more homely. "All right, I'll do what I can," she muttered. "But you take care of the Batman for good!" She jabbed a bony finger into Jones' chest in emphasis.

Jones winced, rubbing his chest, then laughed. "Don't worry, the Batman's a DeadMan."

Isley glared at them again, then finally nodded. "All right. Don't call us, we'll call you."

"Good bye," Jones said. They got up; she didn't.

Walking out the door, they did not see the woman take off her glasses and straighten out her hair as she took a sip from her mug and smile.

* * *

When she walked in, Rachel said nothing at first. Then she whispered: "I'm so sorry, Bruce." She wiped away at her eyes and sniffed. 

"Don't worry about it." Bruce was lying shirtless in his bed, a dark mass of scar tissue now covering the bullet hole on his chest. He had lost an alarming amount of weight, his ribs starting to show gauntly through his flesh. Lying in this bed for almost a week, it had ceased being a relief since Dr. Elliot had removed the bullet, no questions asked. "Actually, I should be the one apologizing to you," he said humbly.

"What for?"

_For being part of the League of Shadows, however briefly. _Bruce sighed; it was so long and complicated. _Put it off for now. _"I'll tell you later, I promise." He smiled beamingly, ignoring the pain as the skin of his neck pulled upwards.

She took a step closer. "Does it hurt?"

"More and less than you think," Bruce said. He tried to shift in his bed, and the pain flared up again, causing him to grimace. Crestfallen, Rachel quickly came up to the bed and put a hand on his chest.

It was pleasingly warm. "The pain was unbelievable when it happened, but now it's faded," Bruce continued. "It's still sore, but the actual pain of getting shot—I honestly can't remember it, only that it hurt a lot."

Rachel began caressing his skin gently, making the hairs stand up on his arms, and elsewhere. "I screwed up," she said finally, lifting her hand. "It was too obvious I disbelieved them when they told me you were involved, I should have thought it through!"

"No, like I said, it isn't your fault." He closed his eyes. "You weren't too obvious, they were—I should have known something wasn't right. They had it planned perfectly, and if I hadn't been lucky..." His voice trailed away.

She pulled up a chair and sat at his bedside. "Do you want anything?"

"No thanks." Bruce fell silent for a while. "So, did the FBI even have a source? Or did they just make it up?"

"I don't know, I could look—"

"No," Bruce said firmly. "It's too dangerous, if they connect you to me—"

She abruptly stood up. "Dangerous?" Rachel sputtered, her voice rapidly becoming angry. "Dangerous is getting shot in the chest! Something rotten is going on in City Hall, and I'm going to find out what!"

Bruce couldn't help but admire her fire. "Well, I'm in no position to object," he said silkily.

Rachel smiled and fell silent. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" she asked.

Bruce nodded. "If you can, I'd like access to your archives of past and ongoing criminal investigation reports."

"Trying to track down Green Dawn?"

"Yep. I got lucky once, maybe I can find something else."

'No doubt succeeding where everyone in the DA's office has failed."

Wincing, Bruce added hastily: "Sorry, I didn't mean it like that—"

"It's okay," Rachel said easily. "It's just, well, knowing you, Bruce, I never pictured you as the detective type."

"You told me once—that's how you beat crime, right? Good honest detective work?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Yes," she said wryly. "But I've heard there are other ways, too."

Bruce laughed loudly. "I've heard the same thing."

"I'll get you what you need. Get better soon, Bruce." She bent down and kissed him on the cheek, then left.

Bruce sighed again. A moment later, Alfred came in with his lunch. "Here you go, sir. Steamed bean curd and soy sauce." He didn't look too happy about it.

"Thanks, Alfred," Bruce said, eating rapidly; he was famished.

"Anything else, sir?"

"Yeah," Bruce said, his mouth still full of tofu. "Get my laptop, I want to start doing some research."

"Right away, sir."


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19

* * *

**

While he officially remained 'on vacation', Bruce was furiously training to recuperate, to rebuild his lost strength through a combination of murderous exercise that would overwhelm the fittest of men, and generous portions of Alfred's protein pies. While he recovered, the news became ever grimmer—businesses attacked, people assassinated, often by the most gruesome poisonings imaginable. To make matters worse, crime was exploding, as both common street thugs and organized groups wreaked havoc while the police remained tied down futilely chasing after Green Dawn and its sympathizers. The mounting carnage and panic spurred him on, but as he regained his health, Bruce realized that this was not a problem that could be solved by muscle alone.

It was time for his mind to fully join the battle as well.

* * *

After spending a few days getting acquainted with Gotham City's criminal justice system by the computer access Gordon got him, Bruce Wayne could not help but a feel a grim respect for Jim Gordon and Rachel Dawes and their beleaguered peers. _Who would ever believe that being Batman, in many ways, is a piece of cake in comparison?_

Gotham City was overwhelmed by criminality. The truth of that was forever burned into his psyche, a dark fact that he would take to his grave and beyond—if there was a beyond. He and everyone else could see it, on the news, on their streets. Bruce could rattle off a dozen statistics: that Gotham City had the highest per-capita murder rate anywhere that wasn't in a shooting war; that a hundred people dying of 'unnatural' causes was considered a good week; that the three largest businesses in the greater metropolitan area were all illegal, and the largest legit one was private security; that the average Gotham citizen would experience 4.7 acts of criminal assault each year. _On and on and on..._

It was one thing to _think_ that law enforcement was overwhelmed. But to read about how public officials treated criminal incidents like triage patients—with the vast majority of crime incidents simply written off—_that_ had seriously depressed Bruce. Car stolen? Fill out this form for insurance and our criminal statistics project. Robbery or personal assault? Fill out another form, and hope you have coverage, because the emergency care hospitals (unlike anywhere else in the country) can legally deny you treatment without it. Homicide? Well, now we'll pay attention, but your detective has two days to get the information and catch the suspect, because in those two days three more cases will be added to his list. And by the way, we haven't even begun talking about how organized crime—not just the families, but the ones wearing suits and running Big Business, or the City itself—makes sure things go their way. If you or your loved one is one of _their _victims, forget about any silly idea of justice; take a hint and get out of town, before you become Murder Victim #3671 for the year. Every cop, every DA, every judge in Gotham knew this in their bones. _Many of them are just going through the motions; God only knows why..._

Reading all this ignited a bitter fire within, and woe be to the unfortunate miscreant who came across his path the next time the Batman would hunt. But it also elicited in Bruce, at some abstract level, a small sense of understanding as to why so many who were tasked with upholding justice would simply turn away, even without a payoff. The fact that along with the professional criminals, there were so many who broke the law out of sheer desperation was something which made his heart heavy, but even he (both as Bruce Wayne and as Batman) could not solve that problem, and in any case Bruce knew himself well enough that there was little chance of becoming a Gotham version of Inspector Javert. During all his years of exile and training he had envisioned himself taking down those at top of the criminal world whose power had protected them from society's justice, and to his delight he had succeeded beyond all expectation with Carmine Falcone. However, Bruce had also learned that in this world there are even deadlier forces on the loose. _Men like Ra's al Ghul. And groups like Green Dawn. _

Bruce Wayne had never considered the possibility that he would have to fight such murderous fanatics, but there was no choice in the matter now: the battle was joined.

* * *

In his mind, Bruce saw a chain of information, of coincidences, of connections. At one end lay Green Dawn and the truth about this mysterious, deadly group. At the other end was a set of facts he knew for sure: that Green Dawn agents had tried to destroy the Hayashi plant that Wayne Enterprises had acquired. How many links existed between both ends, how one link would lead to the next, he did not know, but he was looking forward to the challenge.

Bruce had already seen his bit of speculation pay off, but the deaths of the Green Dawn agents had left him with no other avenue to pursue. With access to police records, he hoped there would be useful information, such as background information about the attackers, but he was disappointed: the terrorists were known members of radical environmental groups, but they had no incriminating information on them, and followup investigation of their friends and associates led only to people who could not possibly be members or sympathizers of Green Dawn. _Cell organization,_ Bruce thought, _minimal contacts between groups, so if one is caught, the others are not compromised._ Reading further, the fact that Hayashi himself had died under mysterious circumstances did not seem to raise any suspicions, nor did the authorities make any effort to delve into the financial background of Hayashi and the record of dealmaking between the corporation and the city government. No reason was given, but Bruce had a pretty good idea why this was the case: Gotham's police had long ago learned not to look too closely into the money affairs of politicians. _Although it's a shame they think Wayne Enterprises is part of this corrupt system. _"Are they right?" he suddenly blurted out to the empty study room. _No time to dwell on that._

Unable to move forward, Bruce decided to go back and investigate the circumstances of Hayashi's death. Normally a food poisoning case was of almost no concern to law enforcement, as the various resources necessary for investigating and prosecuting crimes were severely limited due to overwhelming demand. It was only because Hayashi was a foreigner and not-unimportant figure in the electronics industry that the police had mounted even a cursory investigation. Still, there were some interesting details. According to the report, Hayashi's driver had ordered six dishes to be delivered to the hotel he had just checked in to, one of them the _fugu _that had contained the poison which killed them all. The coroner report confirmed that all of the people who died had either consumed some of the tainted blowfish, or were in the process of chewing it when they succumbed. In the investigation of the restaurant numerous health code violations had been noted, but intriguingly, their entire stock of _fugu_ had tested negative for poison. The head of the restaurant had claimed that their blowfish had been specially prepared before being shipped from Japan, that it should have been safe, but admitted that removing the organs which produced the toxin was not an easy task, and that a tainted fish could have gotten through. Unfortunately, there was little else in the file; the detectives assigned to the case had quickly decided that it was an accident, and no doubt moved on to more pressing matters.

_Assuming that Green Dawn poisoned Hayashi and his men, how could they have done it? _The most likely explanation was that somehow they poisoned the order at the restaurant. But according to his secretary, they had been at a concert earlier that evening and he would return to their downtown office afterwards. Stopping at a restaurant must have been a spontaneous decision, and why did they check in to a hotel on top of that? _Was he with someone? None of the witnesses remembered him being with anyone else. Or did one of his guards betray him? Impossible to say. _He looked forward and back, trying to find some evidence, finding nothing.

And then it struck him: _six_ dishes ordered, for Hayashi, two guards and a driver. _Four_ men._ Five dishes would be more than enough, but six? Japanese businessmen, as a rule, are not glutinous. Lushes, maybe, but not gluttons. _Inwardly Bruce asked forgiveness of his several Japanese friends for the stereotyping. _But six dishes, wouldn't that suggest five people? _Perhaps either an expected or unexpected guest of Hayashi, from the concert? _Somehow, he meets up with Hayashi, they go back to the hotel, he poisons their food, kills them all, then sneaks away._ As Bruce thought of it, a host of difficulties arose: how could he have poisoned the food without them noticing? Or manage to poison all of them without a struggle? Wouldn't his guards have been more careful? He checked the dates: the poisoning took place seventeen days before the attack on Cataldi._ Green Dawn likes to use poisons and diseases against corporate targets. W__as it a trial run? _

That last thought gave Bruce an idea: if it was a trial run, perhaps there were others? _Suppose Green Dawn is _not _a cover for the League of Shadows, but an independent terrorist group. Presumably they would want to test and perfect their methods, especially when they use something as lethal and dangerous as bioweapons. _Since the attack on Cataldi was so effective, it was likely that they tested their weapons not only in a lab, but in the real world as well. _And not just on Hayashi, but perhaps others as well?_

"Looks like I've found a blood trail," Bruce said to himself bemusedly. "I think I'm getting a hang of this detective business!"

* * *

Over the next week, as Bruce returned to work, he continued to investigate his theory while slowly resuming his duties at Wayne Enterprises ("Had a bad fall" he told the board when he showed up limping a few days ago). Reluctantly, he agreed to Alfred's suggestion that Batman not patrol for the time-being; even though he was itching to go out again, there were a host of reasons not to: he had not yet fully recovered, Alfred and Lucius were running into delays with regards to replacing his suit and cycle ("We have to cover our tracks ten times better after that last stunt," Fox had said with a hint of reprimand), and most worrisome of all, the media were having a field day attacking Batman for his assault on the FBI office in City Hall. More than a few speculated that he was involved in some way with Green Dawn, and from what little he could tell public opinion seemed to be turning against him. Shocked, worried, and more than a little angry, Bruce had even taken the great risk of contacting Gordon through the BatPhone to get an idea of what those inside thought of him. Gordon had been somewhat evasive, but did reassure him that while the FBI was making noises about getting Batman, most of the force still remembered what he had done before. Their steadfast and unexplained refusal to give any evidence of Batman's involvement strengthened that belief, or at least made it more difficult to doubt him. 

A few days after talking with Gordon, another attack by Green Dawn—twelve people killed and dozens seriously poisoned by toxic spores planted in Gotham's park systems—shoved all concerns about the Batman-City Hall incident out of people's minds and off the front pages.

The cold fire within Bruce burned colder. He redoubled his efforts.

* * *

With the help of Fox, Bruce had created a complex search operation which indexed, classified, and sorted through all officially-registered deaths, no matter what their cause, in Gotham City up to six weeks before the attack on Cataldi. There had been over ten thousand in Gotham and its surrounding areas, but the vast majority of them were either natural deaths or mundane homicides. What Bruce was most interested in were cases similar to that of Hayashi: unconventional deaths that appeared at first glance to be accidents, committed against people with some status, and the computer methodically went through the records, flagging those which fit the criteria. Initially, the search had provided a list of a hundred and seventy four such incidents. Most of them were either clear-cut murder cases, whose perpetrator was irrefutable, or people dying due to chronic illnesses where there was little if any repercussions resulting from their demises. Now Bruce had to investigate each of them manually. In the end, there were thirteen cases, some of them very intriguing. 

The first that leaped out at him was the death of one Jonathan Staughton. Even though his death was clearly recorded by the hospital and coroner's office as due to cardiac arrest brought on by poor health, the fact that he worked at Cataldi Pharmaceuticals instantly raised a red flag. _I wonder how legit that 'heart attack' was, _Bruce thought darkly. _Was he on the trail of a Green Dawn sympathizer? Or maybe died accidentally... while making a future weapon? _It happened just under six weeks before the attack on Cataldi, but the details were disappointingly scant. _File this one as a maybe._

Another unusual 'accident' was that of Larry Watner. In reading the summary, Bruce realized his own indirect connection to the case: the car accident Watner died in had tied up traffic on the Westmont Bridge that Sunday morning and forced him and Alfred to take another bridge to get to New Wayne Manor. 'A chief lobbyist for the meat industry,' his obituary had said. A quick Internet search soon revealed how environmentally-unfriendly the businesses his PR firm represented were, and Bruce had no trouble imagining a man like him being a choice target for a Green Dawn assassin. According to the report of the officers on the scene, Watner's auto had suddenly spun out of control, crashing into the opposing lane where his car was 'smashed to bits' by an oncoming truck. The weather was clear, and at first glance there did not seem to be anything wrong with his vehicle, although admittedly most of it was shattered, burning fragments by the time they could investigate. The coroner's report noted an unusual concentration of methanol in the equally ragged chunks of Larry Watner that were recoverable, but attributed that to contamination from the antifreeze and fuel mixture of his Porsche.

Again, a perfectly logical explanation... if one assumed it was an accident. If not...

_...Ingesting methanol can cause blindness; I remember that from high school chemistry, and not much else, _Bruce thought with a grin. _If he had drank methanol unknowingly the night before, by the time he woke up, the methanol would have begun to take effect. _He could imagine it in his head: driving on a bridge in the early morning, then suddenly you go blind. In a panic, you try to stop, but lose control, and get smashed. _What a terrible way to die. _"So, someone slipped him a methanol mickey," Bruce mused. _But how? _If he remembered correctly, methanol did taste different from ethanol, so he should have noticed if his drink was spiked. He wracked his head for explanations, but could think of nothing. _Maybe he was just dumb_—_but he wasn't, not according to his bio. _Like Staughton, the facts were ambiguous, but Bruce had a better feeling that this was a relevant case.

Three others involved the deaths of the wives of various doctors, businessmen and lawyers. Their husbands had all been prosecuted and convicted of the crimes, although the evidence was less firm than the news at the time had made them out to be. Another five were the deaths of various doctors, businessmen and lawyers whose _wives_ were accused of the crimes. In all of these cases, the stated motives were insurance-related, covering up of affairs, and, if one convicted woman was to be believed, mental illness. _Some of these cases, I think the guilty got off, or even an innocent was wrongly convicted_—_maybe I'll talk to Rachel about it, although she won't be too happy. But beyond that, these don't seem to be evidence of Green Dawn._

The last case was that of Quentin Franks. Of course, his was by no means a backpage mention; his kinky and gristly murder-suicide had dominated Gotham news and tabloid coverage almost to the moment Cataldi was hit. The details made it nothing less than a modern-day parable: the handsome and wealthy Franks, head of the prestigious New World Chemicals conglomerate, a devoted husband, loving father, pillar of the community, had killed his longtime prostitute/mistress, Rita Viroli, during a rough moment of foreplay, and then shot himself in response. The ongoing revelation of sordid details—safe houses where he had his private orgies, mysterious transfers of money to criminal-controlled banks, blackmail and illegal business schemes—everyone could take some solace in knowing that, no matter what their own sins may be, _that man_ had done worse, even while trying to hide it. Bruce remembered a poor man interviewed several days after expressing a stern satisfaction that even someone as exalted as Franks could be brought down by his own desires. He also remembered several of those in his class tut-tutting about the Franks; now that he was dead, they had felt free to spill all the dirty laundry they knew about, and speculate on the skeletons still to be exhumed. For his part, Bruce had found it quite off-putting; like others, the hypocrisy had rankled his own innate sense of propriety, but it had also caused him, despite himself, to wonder whether his father had any such skeletons in his closet. _It's irrelevant, _he had thought harshly. _Remember, Bruce, the roots of riches are rarely clean. _Another one of Ra's dammed aphorisms, but it was impossible for him to dismiss it entirely. _Justice is justice. _

One day, perhaps, he would have time to make sure his family legacy was in order. But for now, he was focused on the mystery of Franks' death.

Unlike so many other cases, the investigation of Franks was brutally thorough, with reams of photos along with the written reports. Miss Viroli had been found handcuffed to the bed, her neck snapped. On the back of her neck, a small cut had been detected, and it was later determined that Franks had injected Rita with curare, paralyzing her. Bruce could not help but stare at the pretty dark-haired woman, scantily clad, chained to the bed, her head hanging at an unnatural angle, her eyes and face mute and blank. Horrible images and thoughts of what must have been going on filled his mind—he shook his head and reminded himself to remain calm. _The world is a cruel place. To stop that cruelty, one cannot ignore it. _Not long after, Franks had taken his pistol and shot himself in the neck. The police had found him lying atop her body, the two locked in a gruesome and bloody embrace.

Bruce found what little sympathy he may have had for Franks leak out of him like air from a balloon. _What a sick bastard you were, _he thought with cold contempt. _At least you had the... decency... to, to_—

He froze, his mind racing so fast his body had been left behind. _He wasn't decent, so why did he kill himself? _Everyone had clucked how Franks had killed himself out of shame for what he'd done, for doing something that would have finally revealed his perversity to the world. _But it doesn't work that way, does it? Precisely _because _he was so sick and twisted, killing a prostitute wouldn't have meant anything to a man like Franks. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if it's happened before. He's gotten away with lots of stuff_—_maybe even murder_—_in the past. Why not now?_

Bruce's mind raced through alternative possibilities. No way to cover it up?_ But this was a safe house, no one knew about it until one of his bodyguards came and reported it. _Because he loved her?_ Please! _Because he cracked?_ Only in the movies; in the real world the bad guys have no remorse for what they do._ If Franks didn't kill himself, then someone else did. _QED._

Bruce flipped back to the coroner reports. There were traces of curare discovered in Franks' body as well, but only minute traces. The detective had theorized that he had accidentally inhaled or ingested some when he injected it into Rita. Or maybe he had paralyzed himself first, and let Rita play dominatrix for a while, before switching places.

_Or maybe... someone else poisoned him, and shot him. _Looking at the ragged hole in Franks' neck made by the bullet, for the first time Bruce realized that the flesh and bones pointed outwards from the base of his neck, not inwards as if he had put the barrel of his pistol to his throat. The detective had noted this as well, but had no idea why Franks had shot himself in the back of his neck. _If you want to commit suicide, that's a terrible place to shoot_—_you die a long and painful death choking your own blood and vomit..._

"He shot himself in the back of the neck," Bruce said aloud as he studied the pictures. It didn't even seem possible. He tried to mimic what Franks had done, cocking his left arm behind his neck. It caused the skin on his chest to stretch, sending a wave of pain shooting out. Grimacing, Bruce had to force his left arm into position to do it. _Force! Someone else shot Franks in the neck, pulling the pistol behind his neck to do it!_

His arms dropped to his side. Bruce rubbed his eyes vigorously, concentrating. _Franks was a fairly big man, one could only do it if he was unconscious, or already dead... _

_...or paralyzed. Perhaps by curare. Perhaps injected in the same place as with Rita_—_the back of the neck._

Now it all clicked together. Another person was in the room with Franks and Viroli. _He may or may not have paralyzed Rita, but he probably paralyzed Franks._ Then he took his pistol, put it in his hand, cocked it behind his neck, and just before the curare wore off shot Franks in the same place he injected him with curare—_to obliterate the evidence of injection._

Unfortunately, there was one problem: no evidence of another person even being in the building that evening. Police had carefully swept the area for hair and fingerprints, skin samples, footprints—nothing. In and of itself, this lack of evidence _was _evidence; in other Green Dawn attacks, both suspected and confirmed, the attacker had mysteriously managed to sneak into their target without any evidence of entry. No one knew how, but it was clearly signature evidence of their handiwork.

"I didn't think it was possible not to leave evidence behind," Bruce mused. But that was the case. _Alright, back to circumstantial evidence and informed speculation. _Bruce now had at least three, maybe four incidents that possibly were related to Green Dawn. All of them made to appear as apparently accidental or self-inflicted deaths. Almost all of them (for now he ruled out the Staughton death as being Green Dawn-related due to lack of evidence) involving a mysterious person who was probably directly at the scene of the crime, but no evidence of their presence later. All of them involving toxic substances in one way or another. _Anything else? _

_There was great care taken to cover their tracks, to hide any evidence that these deaths were intentional. _Bruce checked the dates: they all occurred on a Saturday evening, except for Staughton. All roughly one or two weeks apart, all leading up to the attack on Cataldi.

"Definitely practice for Cataldi," Bruce said firmly. He didn't have any information about the Cataldi attack (thanks to the FBI's clever ambush that almost worked), but he suspected that many of the same patterns would hold there as it seemed to here: careful infiltration, covering of tracks. Of course, as their first publicized attack, there was no need to hide motives, but perhaps there were other relevant details that Green Dawn had hid from view.

Bruce sat back in his seat, very happy with his work to date. _I've got a firm handle on their history and methodology, their target choice and maybe even their ideology. What about the people involved? Who would they be seeking for assistance? Who might be leading them? _Obviously they had to have at least one molecular biologist who was an expert in genetics. People with explosives training, given recent attacks. _Unfortunately, that doesn't really help narrow things down, does it?_

Bruce turned back to the Franks file. _Another person was in the room with Franks and Viroli. Who? Man? Woman? _

He froze again. _Woman. Woman! _

Another piece of the puzzle fell into place: Green Dawn had at least one female operative. A man like Quentin Franks would never agree to be alone with some strange man in an anonymous hideout, no matter how secure. But a chance at ménage a trios? Bruce could see it now: the other woman sitting behind Rita, injecting her with curare, then Franks as he came over to see what was going on. Then the woman killed Rita, and Franks in such a way as to make it look like murder-suicide. This would explain Hayashi as well: the woman, presumably an attractive one, introduced herself to Hayashi, invited him to that hotel for an evening of _entertainment,_ then somehow tricked them into eating _fugu_ she poisoned.

And Watner. _He was in a five-star hotel in downtown Gotham that Saturday night for a conference. After it was over, probably wanted to go out on the town, meet some ladies... only this time, a lady was stalking him. They meet in some nightclub somewhere, she comes up to him, flirts with him a bit, then when he's not looking, spikes his drink. He goes back to his place, by the time he wakes up and starts driving, the methanol blinds him, end of story. _If Staughton was on the hit list, Bruce would bet dollars to donuts he had a weakness for women as well.

Bruce thought some more. _Not just any woman_—_a _beautiful _woman, very pretty, someone hot! Hot enough to catch the eye of a handsome slick lobbyist who can have any woman he wants in DC. Pretty enough to capture the imagination of a stolid Japanese businessmen. And hot enough to sneak into a businessman's secret love nest without any security around. _A femme fatale Green Dawn operative would also explain the massacre at Parkville Manor—more than fifty of Gotham's fashion elite, including more than a dozen top models and actresses, killed in cold blood by an aerosolized neurotoxin. _This was a private party, the press had no knowledge of it, how could Green Dawn? If their female agent caught the eye of one the hosts, who foolishly let her in._

He shook his head slowly in disbelief. _A supermodel assassin, who's Marilyn Monroe on the outside... and Adolf Eichmann on the inside. A lady skilled in the use of poisons, who can charm the heart of any man, yet has no problem in causing the deaths of hundreds of men, women, and children. _More fantastic than any chimera, Bruce could not imagine such a paradoxical creature. _But she exists. And I have to find and stop her. _

The only question was how.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

**

* * *

**

Marcus Krutzfeld hurried to keep pace with the long strides of Pamela Isley, who was flanked on both sides by her putative bodyguards Thistle and Thorn, her tall figure somehow managing to stand out in the darkness ahead. Over and over he rubbed his hands together, both to keep warm in the cool late evening air and to calm himself down over what was to come next. For many weeks he had been seeking out Green Dawn, yearning to strike a blow against the great Despoilers of the Earth—human civilization. A whispered name led to one secret contact after another, until he at last had an audience with Poison Ivy. That so beautiful a woman could also be so intelligent, dedicated, and _ruthless_ was a great surprise, but in the end mere trivia: what mattered was finally being given a chance to strike a blow for Mother Nature, and he was eager to put his technical skills to the task. _Let's see how many loans Gotham's money masters will be making to strip miners of the rainforests when their computers come crashing down!_

It surprised him somewhat that they were walking rather openly down the dark alleyways of Gotham City to Green Dawn's headquarters, but he credited that as evidence of her resourcefulness, instead of recklessness. Not long after, they were just outside the massive foreboding structure.

"There's one last thing you need to do before you can join our crusade," Pamela said. She turned to face him, and Marcus found it hard not to stare at her legs, her waist, her chest...

"...Sure thing, Pamela, anything you say," he replied laconically. _Fortunately, I can multitask._

She raised an eyebrow. "Anything?"

"Anything," he replied, the chill in his voice almost matching hers.

Now she smiled. "Good. Come inside." She opened a door and entered, followed by Thistle and Thorn. He followed them in, and found himself in a dark and dank corridor, which stretched on for some considerable distance. Pamela stopped in front of a door, took out a key, and unlocked it. Again the three of them followed her inside.

When Marcus entered, he started. Inside the windowless room was a young, dark-skinned man, bound hand and foot in a chair and gagged, a look of sheer terror on his face. Beads of sweat popped up on his forehead, trickling down.

"Recognize him?" Pamela asked. Marcus shook his head. "Neither did I, but no matter. He was wearing a mink fur coat! I don't know about you, but he doesn't look like an Eskimo to me. Does he?"

"Uh, no," Marcus stuttered.

Pamela bent down to face the man. "Only an Eskimo or Innuit or other Arctic people can even dare to claim necessity in wearing animal skins. What's your excuse? Oh, you have none—you're just another vain, arrogant man who revels in destroying helpless mammals to stroke your ego." She got up, a look of disgust on her face. "I saw him walking down the street one day. His very existence offends me, so I followed him and brought him here to face justice."

"Justice," Marcus repeated weakly. _Cripes, they're going to make me_—

"Exactly," she said. "Your first task is to administer it. Here—" Pamela picked up a glass on the table nearby, opened a wine bottle, and poured some wine into it. "This wine is poisoned. All you need to go over to him and make him drink it." She walked over to him, offering him the glass. With a shaking hand, Marcus took it, and began walking over to the bound man.

"You understand, it's the only way we can make sure our people are really with us," she said conversationally. "The rest of the world is trying to destroy us, stop us from saving Mother Nature."

_Wait a minute, I told her I was going to hack into computers, they never said anything about me killing people! _Not that Marcus didn't believe some people needed to be taken out, but he had no stomach for actually committing the act himself.

"That's it, just remove his gag and make him drink."

Marcus' right hand trembled so much he had to steady it with his other hand. Below, the bound man was looking pleadingly into his eyes, screaming into his gag, making inaudible noises. After a few seconds, he reached out towards his gag—

—then suddenly stopped and poured the wine onto the floor, creating a dark red puddle in front of the man's feet.

"I'm sorry, Pamela," Marcus babbled, barely able to place the glass on the table without it tipping over. "I mean, I'm okay with killing, but this guy, I didn't see him commit the crime, I have to know someone's guilty before I kill them."

To his surprise, Pamela smiled. "It doesn't matter, the test was a formality. Welcome to Green Dawn." Behind him, Thorn was freeing the man who was tied up in the chair. He started laughing and guffawing with Thorn.

Stunned, Marcus allowed himself to relax. She picked up the glass and poured more wine into it. "I needed to see how willing or able you were to kill someone. It is something I must know of all our members, even for those such as yourself who are unlikely to be involved directly in termination procedures." Smiling sweetly, Pamela continued: "Your other skills more than make up for it. Would you like a sip?" She offered him the glass.

Marcus hesitated. Pamela looked hurt. "Oh, come on, Marcus, it was all pretend. See?" She took a long sip of the wine, swallowed, then offered it to Marcus. "Perfectly safe."

Relieved, he said: "Thanks," and took a sip. It was quite nice, and he felt himself calming down.

The man who had pretended to be Marcus' victim came up to her and said: "Hey P.I., what are you going to do about my proposal—" He cried out indignantly as Poison Ivy threw the wine in his face.

"—_I'm_ not going to do anything," she spat. "_You're_ going to do what you're supposed to—die!"

The man's eyes widened in shock. He rose as if to strike her, but before he could do so he staggered and fell, twitching and shrieking. In horror, Marcus jumped away.

Pamela gave him a sad smile. "I'm sorry, Marcus my dear. I'm afraid you just don't have the stomach for this business—or that wine." A sudden burning sensation arose in his throat. "But don't worry, you'll still serve the cause... as food for my children."

The world dissolved into nothingness as Marcus sank beneath the waves of an ocean of pain. The last thing he could recall was the sound of his voice as he screamed in agony, and the sight of Pamela Isley watching him die.

* * *

It was some time before Khalfa broke the silence. "If he was a plant, he was awfully convincing," he said thoughtfully. "I never saw it. Nice call, Pamela." 

Pamela was still staring at Marcus' corpse, her brow creased from intense concentration. "You know, I think I was mistaken; poor Marcus might have been legit." She got up and shrugged. "Oh well! Like I said, the more fertilizer, the better!"

Beside her, Khalfa frowned. "That's it? You accidentally killed a potentially valuable recruit, and say, 'Oops, never mind'?"

"Dead is dead, nothing I can do about that. Besides, attacking the Machine electronically is peripheral to what I really want to do in the future."

"But he could have helped us, regardless!"

"Perhaps. Or perhaps he couldn't. Remember Halley's friend Kramer? He couldn't pull the trigger either, so we had to get rid of him, too. And just as Kramer helped us in death, so did Mister Krutzfeld here helped us to get rid of Clifton." She gestured towards him.

"Who is—or was—indisputably part of our movement!" Khalfa objected hotly.

"For now, but you heard him, he wanted to split off, form an independent cell. Said we'd be 'safer and more effective' that way. Hah!" Pamela snorted. "Wanted more of the glory to himself, more like it." She glared at Khalfa, who reflexively took a step back. "How long do you think he'd have lasted before getting caught? And lead the authorities straight back to us? Tell me if you disagree!"

Khalfa sighed. "Yes, Pamela, no one doubts your abilities. All I'm saying is, take our advice, once in a while." He braced himself. "Sooner or later you'll make a mistake. And when you do..."

"...I'll probably die, but not before the world pays in full," Pamela replied softly. Khalfa had his suspicions about what she meant—likely a reference to the project she worked on alone in her private chambers, whose outlines he dimly perceived but, hopefully, he was mistaken about. "It doesn't scare me, and I'm sure it doesn't scare you, either." She shrugged. "Help me move them."

Khalfa and Halley began dragging the bodies of Marcus and Clifton into the main sanctuary, now a verdant paradise grown by Pamela's very green thumb. They brought the bodies to two shallow graves dug at the base of a magnificent rubber tree Pamela had recently planted. Looking out at the miniature rain forest she had recreated, Khalfa tried to think how many individuals—among them street thugs, runaway teens, homeless drifters, prostitutes, addicts and mentally ill, suspected and actual informants, and their numerous kidnap victims from Gotham's business and social elites—had had the final misfortune of crossing Pamela's path at the wrong place and the wrong time. _Enough to nurture a not-so-small greenhouse, _he thought grimly. Still, the fact that they were still operating despite the forces arrayed against them was testament to her ability to strike, and to remain hidden in shadow.

Pamela said to them: "I'm going to do something new." She told them what her next move was.

"Very risky," Khalfa said at once after she finished.

"I agree," Halley said. "You may have gotten away with it once with the FBI, but a second time—"

"—That was because we had to get Batman off our tail, and we have," Pamela interrupted. "No sign of him in over a week. This time, it's out of necessity. We're almost out of the high-quality biochemical supplies I was able to take from Cataldi. We need more if we're going to sustain our campaign."

"There's no other way?" Khalfa asked.

Pamela shook her head. "There are, but the risks are even higher. Now, I bet you couldn't buy even a single can of rat poison or a disc of agar without it being traced. We could try to steal what we need, but the consequences of failure are too great. This way is better."

Neither of them spoke. "The only thing I'm not sure about is the target," Halley said. "Perhaps you should have chosen someone we haven't already hit?"

Khalfa frowned, then suddenly said: "Pamela, you've gotten us this far, I trust you're making the right decision."

"Really? Seems you've been more of a contrarian lately, hmm?"

He smiled. "Skepticism is always the mark of a good scientist—or revolutionary, for that matter. But since no one else can do it, if you're comfortable with the choice, it's the right one. Simple as that."

Pamela smiled. "Comfort has a lot to do with it, surprisingly. You know I am not one to rely on anything so fuzzy as intuition, but for some reason this one feels right."

"Then good hunting," Khalfa said grandly.

"Take what you need, then kill them all," Halley grinned.

"I plan to."

* * *

For as long as he could remember, Bruce had worn suits. _So why is this one so uncomfortable? _He stared into the mirror on the desk, scrutinizing the distressed face staring back at him. 

From within, the Dark Knight answered. _Because nowadays, that's not your _real _suit..._

"No it isn't," Bruce murmured. Unfortunately, that realization did nothing to ease his fidgeting. It was only 9:30 in the morning, and already, one hour into the first day he was back on the job at Wayne Enterprises, his immaculate black Armani suit and Polo shirt was making his skin crawl like the prison rags he was wearing one day, when a certain visitor had arrived and changed his life.

As he began working through the mountains of paperwork that he had allowed to pile up, all he could think about was his ongoing investigation into Green Dawn, and the prospects of Batman's first flight in a long time. To his dismay, the ongoing terror threat had become part of Bruce's day life as well as his night one. The members of the board were screaming for a rapid settlement of the legal and financial consequences of the Hayashi attack, and if he was reading between the lines correctly, blaming him for getting them involved in the first place. _Not that they're wrong to do so. _There were also a host of new security procedures being implemented at Wayne Enterprises, some of which would interfere in his other life. _Batman doesn't need a personal security detail, thank you very much!_

Sinking further into the morass of corporate busywork, another part of Bruce's mind prepared for tonight. _I haven't been to the South Side of Gotham in a while, perhaps I should start there? What about my planned excursion to the Cataldi site? Maybe later, still need to talk to Fox. The suit! Is it ready? Damn, I better check!_

He picked up his phone and called Fox's office. He wasn't in—his secretary had no idea where he was. _But I do. _His spirits lifted, Bruce decided not to interrupt Lucius and attacked his paperwork with renewed energy.

Instead of taking a lunch hour, Bruce retired to his private gym and began a rigorous series of calisthenic exercises. The time off recuperating had weakened him greatly, but Bruce was a total master of his physical self, and he was nearly back to full strength. The only unanswered question was his mental state. _Did taking a bullet for the first time implant a seed of doubt somewhere?_ If so, he had to vanquish it quickly, lest a hesitation in the future be his last. Normally Bruce felt rejuvenated after a workout, but this time his spirits were dampened.

Matters did not improve when, upon returning to his office, more paperwork had appeared! Forgoing the urge to curse out his secretary, Bruce resignedly got back to work again. Now he was dealing with personnel matters. A grim shadow filled Bruce; more than a few major enterprises in Gotham City had suffered terribly at the hands of Green Dawn, up to and including the deaths or disappearances of CEOs and partial or complete destruction of their facilities. In contrast, Wayne Enterprises had gotten off lightly. _And I intend to keep it that way, even if I can't stop them myself. _

At the end of was a list of recent hires by the personnel department, ranging from janitor to senior marketing executive. Bruce trusted his people enough not to micromanage, but he was always interested in new hires. The list had their names, the position they were hired to, their previous employer, and the timeline of their hiring process. Scanning through the dozens of names, his eyes instantly lit up as he came across a recent hire in the biotech department. The nine day process was amazingly short even for a entry-level lab technician, but it was the previous employer that caught his eye. Pulling out the file, he read the attached CV—then read it again, and again. Finally, he sat back.

_Very interesting._

Bruce picked up his phone and dialed the biotech department. "Yes, right away. No, thank you." Hanging up, he willed himself to relax. _It's probably nothing. Just see where it leads, if anywhere. _He was suddenly glad the company had decided to implement stringent new security procedures after all.

The intercom on his desk buzzed. Pressing a button, he said: "Send her in." The door opened.

Pushing his chair back, Bruce Wayne slowly got up and said formally: "Welcome to Wayne Enterprises, Doctor Isley. Please, have a seat."


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

**

* * *

**

Without saying a word, Pamela Isley hurriedly scurried into Bruce's spacious office, and unceremoniously plopped herself down in the chair placed in front of Bruce's desk. Her head hung low, and she did not peer up to look at him.

Bruce Wayne attempted to put on a casual air, smiling broadly even as he carefully scrutinized the woman in front of him. She was of above-average height and slender, although her rather baggy, wrinkled wardrobe seemed to conceal her figure. Wearing a white lab coat on top of a plain lime green blouse and a dark green skirt, her pale face was hidden behind the distorting lenses of her large round-framed glasses which sat askew on her sharp nose. Her dark red hair was rather unkempt, sticking out of a sloppy ponytail. Like many a redhead, her skin was pale—almost deathly so.

"Tea?" She shook her head. Bruce got up and went to the hot water dispenser, using the opportunity to get a 360 look at her. In her seat, she remained still.

A steaming mug of English tea in hand, he came up beside her. "Well, thank you for coming, Miss—pardon me, Doctor Isley, I always like to meet new employees. Bruce Wayne, head of Wayne Enterprises." He offered his hand.

"Pamela," she said softly as she raised hers. "Pamela Isley." Gripping it, he was immediately struck by how literally _cold_ her flesh was, and the taut tendons and ligaments of her long-fingered hand. _Like shaking hands with... a mannequin? a corpse?_

"Mister Wayne, I—"

He winced. Holding up a hand, he said: "Please, call me Bruce!"

"Sorry, sir—I mean, Mister Bruce, Sir," she mumbled, her voice trailing off into nothing.

"So, you went to Yale, right?" She nodded. "I went to Princeton myself. Too bad about your Bulldogs, eh? Not that my Tigers did all that well this season, but they did win the Big 3, and all that."

"If you say so, Mister Wayne. I... really don't follow football."

_Neither do I, to be honest. _"Oh well, that doesn't matter. I must say, I'm thoroughly impressed with your academic record," Bruce said, and that was the truth. He continued: "Admitted to Yale at the age of 16, graduating salutatorian in three years, a Ph.D at CalTech in four." He chuckled. "Frankly, it was a minor miracle I survived junior year. Too many nights boozing on the Street and all that." _A way to drink away my pain, at least until I planned to end it once and for all..._

"Guess your wondering why someone like me would apply for a entry-level lab tech position cleaning test tubes," she mumbled.

_It did cross my mind. _But before he could respond, she exclaimed with surprising vehemence: "Let's stop playing games, okay 'Bruce'? I'm sure your records also include my 'Special Notes' file. Did you hire me to get a laugh? A way to make yourself feel important? Well, ha ha, very funny!" She fell silent, looking like she was about to cry.

"Uh," Bruce stammered. _'Special Notes'? _He started flipping through the pages in front of him. There it was, a big black folder marked, 'Special Notes', apparently collected by New Pinkerton Investigators, a private investigation firm that large businesses like his own consulted for background checks.

"I'll save you the trouble of reading it," she said acidly. "Because of my 'outrageous accusations' of sexual harassment against my thesis advisor, Doctor Jason Woodrue, I've been blackballed from academia. And it turns out that Big Business isn't too keen on hiring people who speak out on environmental issues, so I can't work in industry, either." Quickly skimming through the file, he saw she was telling the truth. Indeed, there was a 'Code 45A—Hiring Strongly Discouraged' note scrawled across her application.

He tried to smile in sympathy. "I won't lie to you, Doctor Isley, it isn't a mark in your favor, but at least you were able to find some employment, at Cataldi Pharmaceuticals."

Pamela's face betrayed no flicker of reaction. She merely nodded and said: "And look what happened. A bunch of crazy radicals try to kill us all with anthrax. I hope they burn in hell," she spat.

"Obviously you disapprove of the methods of Green Dawn," he said quickly. _She made the first move..._

Her eyes widened. "Disapprove? I spent two days coughing my lungs out in a hospital! Most of my associates never left. As far as I'm concerned, I'd rather die of pollution than misguided idealism, thank you very much."

Bruce got up and began pacing the room. _Let's play this out. _"But just because some people go to extremes, doesn't mean what they're saying isn't true. Does John Brown attempting to foment slave insurrection mean his cause of antislavery was wrong?"

Now Pamela smiled, not an unattractive sight. "Looks like you did more than just drink your life away in Princeton, Mister Wayne." He nodded in acknowledgement. Suddenly, an ugly sneer blighted her face. "I don't care anymore, all I'm concerned with now is making a living. Idealism and selfless dedication to a cause may something to do when you're young, but time inevitably marches on. Better to leave things as they may."

"I'm afraid you're wrong about that, Doctor Isley, even though I sympathize," Bruce said softly. Instantly he chided himself. _Did I reveal too much too soon?_

She cocked her head, holding Bruce in her gaze. "Well, I suppose it's easy to embrace lost causes when you've got a billion or two other things to fall back on if you fail."

_Actually, not so easy, Miss Isley. Not so easy at all. _He dared not say that, however. Instead he smiled and said: "Maybe. but one thing to remember: never give up, Miss Isley. Never give up."

"Yeah, yeah," she replied irritably, rudely looking away. _I've heard about geniuses lacking social graces, looks like it wasn't just a _cliché

Bruce sat down. "I don't think you have to worry about your past, anymore, Doctor. Wayne Enterprises is happy to have someone of your talents here."

Pamela got up. "Thank you," she said quietly, no longer so brash. "May I start getting to work?"

"Of course. Good day, Doctor Isley."

"Good bye, Mister Wayne—Bruce." She turned and left.

When the door closed, Bruce sat back, thinking. "Nancy," he said into the intercom, "I'm going home early today."

* * *

Bruce Wayne squinted as the rapidly setting sun cast a brilliant shadow across the Gotham skyline, flooding the Pad with blinding light. Accessing the police network, he searched the records for anything related to Pamela Isley post-Cataldi, and eventually found the notes from a detective's interview with Isley in Gotham Sacred Heart Hospital two days after the Cataldi attack. To his disappointment, apparently she had no information about anyone with motive or ability to attack Cataldi Pharmaceuticals. There was also a followup investigation—apparently the fact that Isley was a molecular biologist with an environmental activist background had not escaped the attention of the police, either. The cops had done a search under secret warrant of her place several days later and found nothing incriminating at the time. Phone records and a one-day surveillance found nothing either. They did find that a few people in various environmental groups that she had been a member of in the past had disappeared recently, but a second round of questioning had found nothing. Pressed by immediate events, the police had folded their investigation of her and others like her, concentrating instead on the attacks themselves. 

Darkness was coming soon, and he was looking forward to finally going back out on patrol again. Without any new leads to follow, he decided he would concentrate on ordinary crime tonight. The mystery of Isley stuck with him, however, percolating in the back of his mind while Batman prepared to take flight once again.

_Brilliant scientist with a background in genetics?_

He didn't know exactly what kind of knowledge someone would need to be able to create the kind of bioweapons Green Dawn had made, but based on his own nontrivial science background Isley could probably do it. _Then again, one of my classmates at Princeton boasted that even he could build an atom bomb, as long as he could get access to the material. Knowledge is less important than having the resources necessary to translate ideas into reality. _Being an eminently practical man, Bruce would not disagree.

_Environmental activist?_

Based on her file, she had been something of an outspoken opponent of many environmental pet peeves like global warming, cutting down the rainforests, pollution. _But no documented involvement with existing radical groups like Earth First or ALF. _This was negative evidence, but it was important never to assume. _Besides, corporate America tends to overreact to those with dissident opinions, no matter how justified. _Not only were environmentalists on the watch list, but so were civil rights activists, advocates for the poor, immigrants, and all other sorts of nonprofitable causes. Bruce the CEO felt a certain shame about that. _Need more data._

_Femme fatale?_

To his slight shame, Bruce had paid close attention to Isley's appearance, knowing full well how women hated that outside of the appropriate context. _Tall, not too fat, those are pluses. Legs_—_can't remember, but probably decent. Face... _

He was having trouble remembering the details of her face. _No major blemishes or irregularities, but she was deathly pallid, and the less said about her hair the better!_ And a woman with glasses was definitely _not_ sexy by Bruce's standards, either.

_It's more than just physical appearance. _Based on his brief interaction with her, feminine wiles would be the last thing he expected Pamela Isley to be an expert in. Bruce tried to imagine her seducing someone like Franks or Hayashi—and failed. Instead, all that came to mind was the severe image of his fifth grade math teacher. Mrs. Petrosh, with her steel-grey hair in a tightly woven bun and square spectacles staring forebodingly out at the terrified members of the class, all of whom feared getting a rap on the knuckles with her ruler for failing to pay attention or answer her questions correctly.

_Beauty and brains: so desirable. So rare._

But Bruce was not disappointed. _Somehow, I'm sure she has connections with people who have links to Green Dawn, however tenuous. If I can get to know her better, I might be able to gain her trust and pick up some new leads. _He left the shack on the Batcycle a happy man. Two hours later, though, news of another attack quickly made his joy transmute into rage.

A band of car thieves would bear the brunt of his released fury that night, suffering more than the usual share of broken ribs and knocked-out teeth.

* * *

It was almost four in the morning before Batman returned to the shed and Bruce Wayne could return to the Pad and sleep. Pamela Isley was there to greet him, smiling. She slowly removed those unflattering brown plastic frames from her face and let down her hair. 

Red and green fire filled his dreams, beckoning...


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22

* * *

**

"Good morning, Doctor Isley." There was no response.

Bruce Wayne put his hands into his suit pockets and looked down at his shoes, whistling softly. She was sitting in front of him, plastic goggles covering her glasses and eyes, concentrating intently on the solutions she was mixing in her test tubes.

Her silent defiance sparked an unexpected sense of indignation. Almost every employee at Wayne Enterprises went out of their way to ingratiate themselves with Bruce whenever the opportunity arose, and while normally he hated being put on a pedestal like that, for some reason her snub was actually getting under his skin. _Alfred, Lucius, and Rachel on occasion can ignore me like that, but they've_ earned _that right. _

Then Bruce chided himself. _You're no more or less deserving of respect than anyone else. There are larger things to be concerned about than someone flouting the corporate pecking order. _He had a feeling the good Doctor would agree with such a sentiment.

_So many questions, Pamela... _His curiosity got the better of him. "Hope everything's going well on the job, Doctor," Bruce added, a little louder.

Doctor Isley nodded and hummed in agreement, but still did not look up. "Your welcome," he said dryly to himself. Bruce began walking around the lab, feigning interest in the other lab monkeys, but continuing to throw glances in the direction of Isley. The other men in the lab mostly ignored her, but on occasion one would come up to ask her something or other, she would turn and respond, then they would nod their heads and leave.

Suddenly, she got up from her stool and ran over to him ."Your laboratory is excellently equipped, Mister Wayne," Pamela said brightly. "Much better than at Cataldi's—between all the fumes floating about in my lab there and the anthrax attack, it's a miracle I have any lungs left!"

Bruce blinked. She was standing very close to him, pushing the goggles to her forehead, a crooked grin on her face. "Glad to hear it, Doctor Isley." He cleared his throat. "Like I said, I was wondering—"

"Yes, yes, things are going fine, it's good to be working in a lab again. Sorry I ignored you at first, delicate things on my mind, very very delicate." Abruptly she pulled up the test tube she was holding to his face. "Would you like to see what I'm doing?" Pamela said rapidly. "Yeast cultures! I love yeast, so many things you can do with a good culture of yeast!"

Bruce involuntarily took a step back, as noisome fumes washed over him. "I'm sure they're very lovely." From a distance, he regarded her long fingers wrapped around the tubes, and noticed something. "Looks like you got a bit on you."

"Oh?" Bruce pointed to her left hand, where there was a splotch of purple on the back of her hand. Her eyes widened, then she said quickly: "Thanks for catching that, sir. Nothing to worry about!" He watched as she went back to the bench, put the tubes down and washed her hands, then back quickly to him.

"I've taken up enough of your time, Doctor. Good day." Without waiting for her reply, he turned and left.

* * *

Back in his office, Bruce was about to read some more police reports when his cellphone rang. It was Alfred. In a somber voice he said: "Master Wayne, you better turn on the television set." He hung up. 

A chill ran down his spine. _Another attack. _He turned on the set, and was greeted by the image of a large building with copious amounts of smoke pouring out of a top floor.

"—have any idea how they managed to plant the bomb?"

"I just spoke to a police officer, who told me one of the survivors they managed to pull from the conference room told him that the bomb went off in the briefcase of one of their vice-presidents." The reporter paused to look at his notes. "I believe he said, a Mister David Lewison, who we've just learned was a Vice-President of Operations at Gotham Financial."

"I want to be absolutely clear, you're saying one of Gotham Financial's own executives may have brought the bomb in and deliberately exploded it himself?"

"Nothing's confirmed down here, but yes, according to our source that appears to be what happened. I'll get back to you as soon as I can get more details."

"All right. Once again, at least seventeen people are dead following a powerful explosion which took place at Gotham Financial just forty-five minutes ago." The anchorwoman paused as she was handed a sheet. "This just in, the Associated Press is reporting they have just received a message from the terrorist group known as Green Dawn claiming responsibility for the attack. We're going to go live now to City—"

Bruce turned off the set and sank into his seat, numb. _Another attack, and I didn't do anything to stop it! _Crying out an inarticulate roar of rage, he swept the paperwork from his desk and slammed his fist down on the desk. Breathing heavily through clenched teeth, he leaned back and rubbed his eyes. _Focus! The only way to fight these terrorists is to outthink them, and you can't do that when you're angry. _Repeating a calming koan he'd learned in the League, his fury leaked away, replaced by cold determination.

After Cataldi, every Fortune 500 in Gotham, Wayne Enterprises included, had stepped up surveillance of their facilities, so it was unlikely that Green Dawn could have planted the bomb ahead of time, although it couldn't be ruled out. That being the case, someone—perhaps this Mister Lewison, perhaps someone else—must have brought the bomb in on their person. As a rule, bank executives making close to seven figures a year for a hundred billion dollar financial corporation were not angry or desperate enough about things in the world to engage in suicide terrorism. _Unless he was last at their last golf tournament,_ Bruce thought darkly. _Unknowingly planted? _Absent-minded he might be, but Bruce didn't know anyone in the upper ranks who was actually so clueless as to not notice if a bomb was ticking away inside his briefcase. _They can make bombs small these days. _But the pictures had shown multiple windows shattered by the blast; it had to be a large device, several pounds at least if it were high-quality plastic explosive, more if it weren't.

_What about my theory that a gorgeous woman is one of Green Dawn's operatives? _Suppose the night before she had met him, seduced him, then afterwards sneaked a bomb into his briefcase... Bruce shook his head: if she had killed him, or kidnapped him, or stolen information from him, maybe, but plant a bomb in his things without looking? _There are limits to feminine wiles. _Maybe all she got was security-related information from him, like a password? Again it didn't compute. The only way he could think a bomb like that could have been sneaked past security was if it were being carried by someone important enough that they could be fast-tracked through. _Like a corporate Vice-President. _But it still didn't explain how a higher-up could be bamboozled into doing something like this, unless he did it willingly, which he was sure did not happen.

Desperate, Bruce allowed his mind to float free. _Did he do it because of blackmail? _Then all he would have had to do was kill himself, why kill all his colleagues and friends? _Hypnosis? Mind control? _Upon thinking those things, he finally stopped himself. _You don't have enough facts; wait for the police to solve this, or get the facts from them. _

Given the job the authorities had done to date, Bruce was not sanguine about either of those possibilities. _But perhaps I have a lead of my own.

* * *

_

"Tell me, Mister Wayne, do you always invite new employees to lunch?" In his office, Pamela used a fork to pick up her Chinese vegetables.

Picking up a piece of fish with his chopsticks, Bruce said: "No, but you're not like most employees."

"Let me guess, it's because you couldn't resist my looks," Isley said with a hint of sarcasm, shaking her greasy hair back and forth ostentatiously. She stared at him with a fixed, wary gaze.

Involuntarily Bruce laughed. "Uh, no, it's not that." Truth be told, at the moment he definitely did _not _find her attractive. He didn't know why, perhaps it was her long red hair, her milky white skin, her bright green eyes, sharply defined features or even her glasses, but for whatever reason, she didn't float his boat.

That wasn't to say he was _uninterested_ in the Doctor; far from it. "Well, first of all, you're a Yalie, which makes you interesting." He flashed a smile as charming as it was false.

"Oh really?" Her voice dripped with skepticism.

Bruce sighed. "All right, this may sound silly, but I'm interested in your brains." He paused, taking in her incredulous looks. "You heard me. Obviously you're very smart, but it's your determination to get things done that impress me, why we overlooked your record. It's what ultimately separates the successful from the rest."

Pamela said nothing, merely sipping her water. "I take it you must be a very driven man, what with all your success."

Bruce stretched his neck so that his head was closer to hers. "Just between you and me, I'm not," he whispered. "At least, I wasn't. My position in life is mostly a result of my late father." He paused. "It's not easy to talk about, but it defines who I am."

For a while she didn't say anything. Then: "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude."

He stopped her with a wave of his hand. "Don't worry about it." Bruce went back to eating, not looking up at her. She said nothing for a while. _Come on..._

"May I ask what happened?" Her voice had a touch of warmth he had never heard before. _Now it's time to put on a show..._

Slowly, hesitatingly, Bruce told her about the murder of his parents, what a searing experience it had been, how it had hung over him and many a times threatened to overwhelm him as he grew up. How his secret desire for revenge was just about the only thing that got him through those long years. Then he told her about Joe Chill and what happened to him. When he had 'confessed' his past to Ra's, it had provided a dark sort of closure for him.

Now, it made him unexpectedly nervous.

"I wanted payback, and irony of irony, it was taken away from me." He noticed he had her undivided attention. "So I spent seven years traveling the world, seeing the dark realities of life we seldom see here in America. I came back a changed man, Doctor Isley. I realized that it was all wrong, that we had to start over from the beginning. This is not how man is supposed to live." He gestured grandly with his hand. "We need a movement back to harmony, or else it all ends." _Why do I feel so dirty now?_

Isley said nothing, did nothing. She scooped up and ate some more vegetables. "Interesting ideas, Mister Wayne," she said causally, "although I must admit they sound a little strange coming from a man in your position, doing what you do, dressed as you are." She gestured as he did at the office, and at him.

"I admit, I was a bit weak—still am, in many ways. I came back to my father's company so I could use its resources as a way to further my goals, but unfortunately... it hasn't worked as planned. Perhaps..." His voice trailed away.

She cocked her head quizzically. "Perhaps?"

In a conspiratorial tone of voice he whispered: "Perhaps now is the time for stronger methods. Radical action. Green Dawn is wrong, but only in their means, not their ends. Maybe someday, in the future, I can better utilize the resources I control here at Wayne Enterprises to help achieve these goals."

Pamela's mouth hung open slightly, but made no other reaction. At last, she said: "Maybe, but if you want to do it you'll have to do it on your own. It's not my fight anymore, remember?"

"I remember. But I like you, Isley, and I knew as soon as I read your record that I knew you would understand, even if you don't agree." He smiled again. "This is a burden I've carried for a long time, and shared with almost no one else. But I knew I could share it with you."

For the first time, she looked taken aback. Finally she said: "I'm not sure how to take that." She put down her spoon. "Thanks again for lunch. I probably should get back to the lab."

"Of course. Good bye, Doctor."

Nodding, she got up and turned to leave. Right before opening the door, she paused, turned around and said: "My sympathies for your loss, Bruce."

"Thank you, Pamela." Nodding, she left.

When he was sure she was gone, he exhaled and began to shiver involuntarily. For some reason, he had the eerie feeling that some invisible darkness had wrapped itself around him, and he couldn't throw it off.

* * *

Later that evening, Bruce still found it hard not to dwell on his conversation with Pamela Isley this afternoon. Perhaps sensing this, Lucius Fox loudly cleared his throat and said: "Is it all clear, Mister Wayne?" 

Fortunately, his mind quickly snapped back to tonight's important mission. "It's clear, I just don't understand why it was such trouble."

Fox said: "The NOMEX suit originally had full NBC protection built into it. Then, against my recommendation, you had them taken out."

"It was too hot. That's not good."

His somewhat flippant reply was greeted by an exasperated sigh. "I know it's not, sir, but now that you've _changed your mind_," he said, emphasizing the last three words, "it's much more difficult to re-add the biochemical warfare protection than it would have been had we designed your suit to have it from the beginning."

"I'm sorry, Lucius, at the time I wasn't fully sure if you were on board. I guess I was impatient to get it up and running."

Having gotten an apology, Fox seemed to relax. "Well, like I said, it was difficult, but now you'll be protected. However, I must tell you that it won't be as good as the Mark III suit I'm working on now. Are you sure you can't wait another two days?"

Bruce shook his head. "It's been far too long already. I've got to find out what's there, if anything."

"I understand." Without further ado, Bruce began putting on the modified suit. Immediately he noticed how much heavier and thicker it was, the protective inlining pressing against his skin. When he began modifying the NOMEX suit to become the Batsuit, the chemical-warfare attachment was one of the first things he had removed. However justifiable, it had nearly cost him his life in the Narrows against Crane. He would not make that mistake again, at least as long as Green Dawn remained a threat.

His gauntlets barely fit over the protective gloves he now wore. The cowl was pressed extra-tight against the skin of his face, he did not appreciate the darkened goggles he had to wear, and the breathing mask was a giant monstrosity. Bruce had grave doubts whether it would remain sealed in the event of personal combat; he shook his head to and fro after he attached it. It stayed on, which somewhat allayed his concerns.

"How do I look?" His voice was muffled by the mask, and things were very dark, but he could clearly see Alfred and Lucius nodding.

"You look even more terrifying than before," Alfred said, his voice slightly attenuated.

"Perfect."

"Now remember," Lucius said sternly, "be careful around any sharp objects. In case of suit failure, use the white needle. The Tumbler will be on standby in case you need assistance."

"Great. I'll see you before daylight."

* * *

Later that evening, Batman stood on the outskirts of the deserted Cataldi Pharmaceuticals building. Roadblocks on all sides barred entrance to the facility, which was covered with a tattered plastic wrap of some kind. Once the singular focus of the media world, the ongoing terror campaign had rendered this place a mere footnote in history. 

He was getting impatient, for his contact was late. Fortunately, a few minutes later, he saw what he wanted to see. The lone car pulling up across the street discharged a single figure, tall and thin.

"I was wondering when you were going to show up," Batman said after he dropped down to meet him.

"Sorry, I had to go see my kid's play tonight." Gordon smiled. "You're really going to go through with this?"

"Do I look like I'm dressed for a casual night out?"

Gordon shook his head. In front him, the Batman had various dark attachments covering his eyes and mouth. He looked even more intimidating than normal. "No, now you _really_ scare the hell out of me, quite frankly. But those spores inside aren't going to be as impressed."

Batman groaned at the lame joke. "I'll be fine. What can you tell me?"

Gordon reached inside his pocket and pulled out a series of blueprints. "The Feds went in a week after the attack, but as far as I know they didn't take anything out, except for the bodies. Did some checking, appears they mainly downloaded a bunch of information from their computers. Far as I know, no one else has been inside since."

"No attempts at decontamination?"

Gordon laughed harshly. "Sure, it's only Item # Kajillion on the things that need to be done in Gotham." He jerked his thumb towards the building. "Long as nothing inside gets out, people downtown are happy. Which reminds me—"

"—I won't let any anthrax inside get loose," Batman interrupted.

"Good to hear it." He held up the blueprints. "I went to a lot of trouble getting these, raised a bunch of eyebrows at HQ. If this goes wrong, it's curtains for me as well as you."

"We're partners, remember? I've got your back, always. You can count on me."

Gordon sighed. "All right, you don't need to boost my spirits, just worry about yourself." He opened the blueprints. "What are you looking for?"

"Main thing is, I want to get a sense on what Cataldi's people were working on before the attack. If the attacker was affiliated with Cataldi, they might have left some stuff behind."

Gordon shook his head. "Seems a little vague."

"Tell me what floor the research labs are on, and where their mainframes are."

Gordon studied the blueprints. "Looks like the labs are on floors six through eight. The computer stuff is, basement level, I think."

"Got it. Thanks."

"Don't mention it. Good luck, and be careful."

"I will."

* * *

Carefully Batman erected a large bag around the vent at the top of the building. Once it was secured, he worked loose the screen door and slid down. Inside the darkened building, he took out a tube from his belt, opened the cap, exposed the liquid inside to air, then stopped it up and shook it. A minute later, the liquid inside turned red. _Active contamination. _Not that he didn't expect it, but it was still made his heart beat faster. Slowly he descended the stairs to get to the basement. 

Exiting the stairwell, he followed the map to the main computer room. When he opened the door and turned on his flashlight, he was dismayed to find all of the mainframes ruined; acid had been poured inside them, wrecking their motherboards and hard drives. He also noticed that all the glass in the room was broken, and the consoles and keyboards appeared to have been blown up. Sharp prods of plastic, glass, steel and concrete were everywhere, crunching loudly with each step he took.

_Someone's been here already, covering their tracks. _He tried to flip on the power switch of a computer that seemed to be intact, gingerly avoiding sharp metal to do so. It sparkled and fizzed, then died. _And not only did they wreck the computers, they tore up the place as well, so that even someone wearing a biosuit couldn't risk coming in here and tearing their suit on the shards.  
_

There was nothing down here. Batman made his way back up the stairs to the sixth floor. On a directory he searched for Isley's name, but didn't find it. He then went up to the seventh floor, and found it; she had worked in Room 737. When he got there, the large laboratory looked like it a bomb had gone off inside. Virtually nothing was intact—the tables, chairs, test tubes, all destroyed by some malevolent force. _Interesting. _He bent down to examine a ruined table, which had cauterized burn marks on it. Getting up, he examined the room carefully, building a picture in his mind. It was suddenly clear: someone had rigged the room with evenly-spaced charges of plastique—he could see the regular spacing of the blasts, with debris patterns in between. Stepping slowly over the rubble, he made his way to Pamela's desk, where he found a bunch of shattered test tubes. _There was a charge placed here, but it appears nothing else was done to either search or cover up her stuff. _There were no surviving personal items at all, merely a stash of ruined equipment.

He was about to leave when he remembered something: another employee had died at Cataldi before the attack, someone who he had become suspicious about. _Staughton. _If he remembered correctly, he was a supervisor of research at Cataldi, which meant his office was around here somewhere. Sure enough, the lab map on the wall pointed out the office of the supervisor, at the other end of the laboratory. To his mounting excitement, he noticed that it had escaped destruction. When he got there, he realized why: the name on the entrance said Janice Hartmann, who no doubt had replaced Staughton after his death. Fighting off potential disappointment, he made his way inside. The office was neat, and had been hastily abandoned. Turning on the computer, he was faced with a login screen. Stumped, he then began searching the desk, and found what he was looking for: a list of passwords. Soon after he was inside. There was no access to the company network, so he began a search for local files containing 'Pamela Isley.' There were over 200; gingerly he took out a flash drive, plugged it into the computer and copied the files. Out of curiosity he opened one, and was treated to a progress report on something called RTN-355A, which appeared to be a Viagra-style anti-impotence drug. _Not exactly bioterror-related material, is it? _He opened up several other files; they were all related to this project.

Checking the dates on the files, they were all dated after Staughton's death. _Was this all Isley was working on here at Cataldi? _It would help if he could access Staughton's files, but there was nothing on the hard drive by him. _Unless..._ He took out another flash drive, loaded with a special deleted-files recovery program. He installed it on the machine, then ran it. Over 20,000 files appeared. Taking out several CDs from the desk, he copied all of the recoverable files to them, and smiled. _Mission Accomplished._

Satisfied, he shut down the computer and left, intending to go to the eighth floor. He had just cleared the office when there was a massive explosion behind him. Instantly he was thrown through the air and landed with a thud on the floor. Groaning, he shakily got to his feet. _It must have been rigged to go off when the computer was turned on or turned off._ Despite the sweltering heat of the suit, he shivered; if he had simply turned off the computer's power, and not shut it down properly, he would have been in the office and killed by the blast. _Good thing I practice sound computing!_

His revelry soon disappeared; there was a tear in his glove, which had been ripped open as he skidded across the glass-strewn floor. Frantically he began checking elsewhere. There were other tears on his suit, but unlike a fragile biohazard suit his NOMEX suit had protected him. Then he checked his mask, and to his horror found the seal over his mouth had been torn loose at one point. _Anthrax!_

Batman began running to the exit; there was no time to go out the way he came, he would have to exit the front door and risk alerting the police. Then he stopped, remembering the needle which was filled with antibiotics. He took it out, noticing with dismay that the needle was bent, and leaking. Angrily he threw it down and resumed running. He tightly pressed the filter closed, breathing rapidly. He had made it to the third floor when there was a sudden itching sensation in his lungs. _Oh God, no..._

By the time he made it to the front door the itch had become a horrible burn, as if he had breathed in ammonia. Fighting for breath, Batman kicked at the door, but it wouldn't open; it had been bolted shut on the outside. He kicked again, with no effect. Frantic, he saw the large glass windows to the side. With all his strength he picked up a desk and flung it at the window, which shattered into a million pieces, and triggered an alarm. Staggering outside, he pulled out his communicator and gasped, "Meet me outside the main entrance. Now!"

A minute later, the Tumbler turned the corner and headed towards him, running on silent mode. The door opened, which caused Batman to stop in his tracks and yell: "No! Lucius, put on your mask, I'm infected!" The door abruptly shut, and he counted agonizing seconds before it opened again. He staggered inside, where Lucius was waiting, his mouth and nose covered in a gas mask.

"Are you okay?" Lucius asked as the door closed behind him.

"Need... antibiotic," Batman rasped. Lucius pulled out another needle, and Batman pulled off his outer and inner gloves, revealing his forearm. He gritted his teeth as the needle went in, then slumped back in the seat.

"Now just you relax, Mister Wayne, I'll drive."

He was too weak to reply. Everything faded to black.

* * *

_At least this time I only need to spend a day at home. _In his pajamas, Bruce sat up in bed, watching the news. His break-in to Cataldi had been reported, but fortunately it was not tied to the Batman. _Gordon's going to kill me, _he thought grimly. _Hopefully not too many spores got loose.  
_

The door opened, and Lucius and Alfred stepped in. "How are you feeling, Mister Wayne?" Fox asked.

"Much better. I'll be ready to go back to work tomorrow." He feigned a smile. "Or tonight, depending on what you have to tell me."

Lucius smiled. "You're responding very well to the treatment, just remember to keep taking your pills. As for the discs, most of the files are encrypted or garbled. I'll work on it this afternoon and let you know what I find." He paused. "There is one other thing, though."

"What's that?"

The two men stared at each other, and Alfred shrugged. "Mister Wayne, Alfred tells me you're not on any medication..."

"I'm not."

"Well, then, both of us were wondering, are you being treated for prostate cancer?"

Bruce sat up abruptly. "Prostate cancer? What the hell are you talking about?"

"It's just that the labs found rather high levels of LHRH agonists in your blood, and they were wondering about your dosage—"

"—I've never heard of LHRH, I've certainly never taken it! What does it do?"

"It's a testosterone inhibitor. Prevents buildup of testosterone in the body, and it's used to treat prostrate cancer."

"I'm fine," Bruce said firmly. "Look at my latest medical checkup if you're wondering."

"All right. Well, if you were taking LHRH and your prostate is okay, you might want to stop." He flashed an unusual grin. "Otherwise all your lady friends Alfred keeps telling me about are going to be very disappointed!"

"I'll keep that—what did you say?"

Lucius sighed and put on the air of a teacher having to explain something to a slow pupil. "Low testosterone levels mean reduced sex drive. As an inhibitor of testosterone action, taking LHRH will mean... well, you can fill in the blanks."

"I got it. Thanks gentlemen." They both left.

Bruce carefully considered Fox's words. _Why would someone want to dampen my sex drive?_ Some amusing answers came to mind, but the more he thought about it, the less funny it was.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

**

* * *

**

Normally Bruce did not look forward to the beginning of the day at Wayne Enterprises. For him, being a CEO was strictly a 9-5 job, so the nervous excitement he felt as Alfred drove him to work was a novel experience. To be more precise, Bruce was an anxious farmer who, having planted a seed the day before, was racing out the door as soon as he could to see if it had sprouted. 

His carefully-chosen words to Pamela Isley during their lunch a few days ago were but the opening step in a game that was either completely irrelevant, potentially fruitful, or exceedingly dangerous. All of his logical deductions and illogical hunches had been unable to date to untangle the mystery of Isley and her connection, if any, to Green Dawn. The opening he left on the table was one avenue of pursuit, while his near-fatal excursion to Cataldi was another. Hopefully Lucius would have more information for him later; for now, it was time to see whether Isley would trip the trap.

At the office, Bruce read the answer to a confidential memo he had drafted after his first interview with Isley. One of his Operations executives had reported that there had been no unusual loss or requests for sensitive materials, no unusual biochemical readings in the laboratories. So far as he could tell, Isley's conduct had been impeccable, but unfortunately that told him nothing. _All right, maybe she's legit... now._

It was time to test what really lied beneath those glasses.

* * *

"You called, Mister Wayne?" To his great surprise, although Isley looked the same as before, his blood suddenly began to heat up in a way it had not for a long time. _Is this an overreaction, after getting off of... whatever it was Fox said I was on? _He was starting to sweat, and suddenly he realized he had not said anything in a while.

"Oh yeah, uh, Pamela, I wanted to talk to you about something—" He couldn't remember what it was! Being so frazzled was an unusual and unpleasant experience. He sat down, shuffling the papers on his desk, trying to remember what he wanted to do.

"What would you like to talk about?" she asked.

Blinking, Bruce found himself nearly face to face with Isley, who was standing at his desk, smiling shyly and brushing her hair back and forth. Staring into her eyes, he felt a tingling going up his body—

—and then it disappeared. With amazing rapidity everything seemed to come into focus, and he instantly remembered what he wanted Isley here for. Opening a drawer, he reached in for a folder and said: "Right, the reason I brought you in here. I want you to review this."

He handed her the thick sheaf of papers. "What is it?" she asked.

"A list of all our direct and indirect holdings in various enterprises both here and around the world," he said severely. "If you don't mind, I would like you to take note of any investment in firms whose environmental practices are not in compliance with the new Kyoto greenhouse gases standard."

"Why?"

Bruce put a note of incredulity in his voice. "So that Wayne Enterprises can divest themselves, of course." Pamela's eyes widened a bit. "You are one of only a few who I feel are qualified and trustworthy enough to handle this sensitive task."

The papers wavered in her hands. "Sir, with all due respect, I don't think—"

"—I know, you said you didn't care," he replied coldly. "But _I _do! This world must be saved before we destroy it, and while I can't save it by myself, I can damn well do everything I can for a man in my position. That... and more."

"More?"

Bruce smiled. "Let's not go there just yet. There are limits to what I can do as CEO, constraints I must follow. Eventually I can change Wayne Enterprises, but it will be slow going. But as CEO, I also have resources which make... other ways possible as well." Inside, he knew he was straying way too close to the line, but he prided himself on the total lack of fear or hesitation there was in his words and demeanor. "You have a week to review it and make your recommendations. Agreed?"

Her voice betrayed no unusual emotion. "I'll do my best, Mister Wayne." She began to cough, severely. Bruce got up to assist, but she waved him off. Instead, Isley pulled out a little aersol pump and began to inhale as she squirted it. Minute amounts escaped out the sides of her mouth.

Bruce sniffed, then sneezed. His head was buzzing a bit, and he wondered why.

"Mister Wayne?"

Bruce looked up; it was Isley. _When did she get here? _"Uh, yes, Pamela?"

Smiling, she said: "Good day, Bruce," and left.

"What was I thinking about?" He tried to remember, a bit surprised that his usually-excellent memory was failing him. "Ah, now I remember." _Baiting the lure. _Pamela now had concrete 'proof' that he was serious about doing something for the environment. _Perhaps she'll let her friends know, and they might become interested in me_—_one way or the other. _Now, he would have to wait for Isley (or someone else) to make the next move. Until then, he realized there was something else he could do. Wearily he sat back down and got back to his day job.

* * *

The musty chambers where Lucius moonlighted were a now-familiar and most comforting place for Bruce Wayne. It seemed like an eternity before when he first came here and, like any boy or man, became irresistibly drawn to his bag of toys. Of course, the things Lucius made were far more than just toys—they were tools of his Crusade. 

Toys or tools were not the purpose for his visit now; information was. "Any progress on those deleted files?"

"Quite a bit, actually." He punched a few keys on the keyboard, and dense screens of text flew by. "These are recovered portions, the absolute best that can be done with them." He pulled up another screen, read it, an said: "Looks like this Staughton guy was paying attention to Isley."

For a second, Bruce wondered why. _She's nothing special. _"What about her work, what was she doing while he was there?"

"Let's see," Lucius said, putting on some spectacles as he read the mass of data on the screen. "Something to do with cellular implants, diabetes-related."

That was not the answer Bruce was expecting. "Nothing about microbiology? Toxin research?"

Lucius shook his head. "Not at first glance. There's a lot of stuff here, and biology is not my strong suit. Let me work on it."

"All right. Thanks again." Bruce turned to leave, then stopped.

"Something else, Mister Wayne?"

Bruce paused. "I'm sorry... did you see anything about her working on microbiology, or poison-related stuff?"

"I just told you, not yet," Lucius said with an edge to his voice.

Bruce frowned. "Oh. Okay." He turned to leave.

From behind, Lucius called out: "Are you feeling all right, Mister Wayne?"

"Fine," Bruce said, not looking back.

"You haven't been doing any 'recreational' drugs again?" Lucius said silkily.

Laughing, Bruce said: "Absolutely not."

Now Lucius was all business. "Perhaps I should take another blood sample."

Now Bruce was exasperated. "What? I'm fine, nothing's wrong!"

Lucius backed down. "Okay, just asking. Good night, sir."

"Good night," Bruce said, annoyed.

* * *

The most surprising thing for Rachel was the dreamy feeling of lightness she felt, as if nothing could touch her. _Maybe this is why Bruce is who he is._

After their aborted attempt to capture Batman failed, the FBI had moved their base of operations to another municipal building downtown. Normally at six in the evening, the location should have been teeming with FBI and other government officials supervising the investigation against Green Dawn. But today, after weeks of coaxing Mayor Lindsey to scream and shout to everyone in government from the county to the state to the halls of D.C. itself, the FBI had finally agreed a full and comprehensive briefing as the state of the investigation. Almost everyone from the FBI was now en route to that meeting, as well as everyone involved in public security.

Everyone except her.

There was but a single guard at the entrance to the room. How to distract the guard into leaving his post had puzzled her for hours until a straightforward solution came to mind. Loosening the buttons of her blouse, she tossed her hair and breathed deeply, wiping the sweat from her brow...

...and walked up to a nearby fire alarm and yanked it. Immediately an alarm sounded.

Seconds later, police were swarming the corridor, ordering people to evacuate, including the FBI guard. Once the coast was clear, she hurried down the empty corridor and opened the door. This building had been renovated recently, and the entire safety system was computer-controlled. In particular, in the event of a fire all the doors in the complex would unlock automatically. But there wasn't much time left.

Inside was piles of material stacked on the desks. There was no time to risk searching their computers, so she went to the table and looked for a particular label. _Forensics... Requisitions... Updates to Washington... Tips!_

She found what she was looking for. Inside the thin envelope she flipped through the documents. Bunches of names flew past her eyes, but she was thinking, correlating, analyzing—

—In a flash she had it. Minutes earlier the alarm had stopped. Quickly she made her way out. Before she could get to the stairs, the FBI guard came out the elevator.

"Hey! What are you doing here?"

"Sorry," she said simpering, "I was in the ladies' room and couldn't get out, and was so afraid—"

The guard gave her a hard look-over, then smiled. "Well, everything's okay, Miss. False alarm."

"Thanks. I'd better get back to Mr. Petersen's office, he'll want his coffee soon."

"Right. Get going." As she left the building, Rachel marveled at how easy it was.

Soon, she discovered, it wasn't.

* * *

Bruce Wayne was sitting in his chair, looking out on the evening Gotham skyline, sipping his tea. The gleaming buildings beckoned to him; he could see himself swooping through the sky, traversing one tower after another, a dark demon of the night haunting his sworn enemy. _But out there, there's an even darker foe, who may be planning on killing us all. What should my next move be?_

Serendipitously, the phone rang. Alfred picked it up, then after a moment's pause said: "Very well. Bring it up here."

"What is it, Alfred?"

"Someone, a woman apparently, dropped off an envelope for you at the front desk. They're having it brought up."

His neck tingled. "Did they say who it was?"

"No, sir."

Bruce nodded, his mind racing. A few minutes later, the door rang. Alfred got up and went to the door, opened it and brought it in.

"It's Rachel, isn't it?" Bruce said as soon as the door closed.

"It does appear to be her handwriting." Alfred handed him the manila envelope, on which was scrabbled: 'For Bruce Wayne'. He opened it and read the handwritten note:

* * *

_Bruce, the FBI's source is someone named Pamela Isley.  
_

_I snuck into their office today and found out who their informant was. I thought I got away, but they're calling me in. I couldn't risk telling you electronically, so I'm dropping this off at your place before I go.  
_

_DON'T CONTACT ME IN ANY WAY, AND DON'T DO ANYTHING FOR ME. It was something I had to do. I'm willing to pay the price, no matter what._

_Hope this helps,  
Rachel

* * *

_

The note crumpled slightly in Bruce's hand. He brought it to his head and closed his eyes.

"Sir?"

"Leave me alone for now." Without another word, Alfred left. Bruce was alone, seething in the cool air of the Pad.

_Think Bruce, don't rush to judgment,_ he said over and over again. But it was hard to keep the rage and fear fully in check, for everything was on the brink.

_Pamela Isley is involved with Green Dawn... somehow. _That was a fact, but the 'somehow' made all the difference in the world—because he did not know to what extent. Again, he could construct a theory which fit both ends of the spectrum: either someone in Green Dawn used Isley to try and set him up, or as a member of Green Dawn Isley did it on their orders or of her own initiative. There was only one person who could clarify this question, but for the moment the bigger problem was Rachel.

_She's got more nerve than common sense, _he thought sourly, but even stronger than his discomfiture was a sense of... he wasn't sure exactly. _Empathy? Gratitude? Protectiveness? _Any and all, or perhaps none. Could he help her? As much as he wanted to, the danger was extremely high—now that they knew or suspected a tie between Batman and Rachel, the smallest misstep by himself would lead the world straight to Bruce Wayne, and that would be the end of everything.

_And that includes going after Isley directly. _Presumably the FBI thought Isley credible, otherwise they would have arrested her and not have gone to all that trouble to capture him. _So she's probably under their protection._ Thinking it over, the best bet was to continue letting Isley work at Wayne Enterprises, while keeping a close eye on her. _If she's a mole trying to investigate whether Wayne Enterprises is tied to Batman, don't give her anything to warrant further scrutiny. And if she's part of Green Dawn, at least I can keep an eye on her. If she does anything, let the police know. _Once that happened, if it did, she would lead them straight to Green Dawn, and that would be the end of it. _Or: put my third option into play... _

That would be the most dangerous, but might get answers even faster.

_Very dangerous indeed. _But Bruce would be damned if he would let anything happen to Rachel. _Time to test the waters.

* * *

_

"Be careful, sir."

"Always, Alfred." They were at the Shack, finishing the setup for the telephone scrambler. From the Wayne Enterprise database he had retrieved Isley's home contact number. The call he planned to make to Isley—portraying a telemarketer with a voice-distortion unit—would test whether or not she was still being protected by the FBI. _Let's hope Lucius' toys work._

"Here goes nothing," Bruce said, his voice not his own as the voice distorter sat on his larynx. Making the call, it rang for ten seconds, and then:

"Hello?" It was a male voice.

"Hello," Bruce said in his new unnaturally high falsetto. "I represent Byron Beauty Care, is Miss Pamela Isley in?"

"She's my girlfriend, what do you sell?" To the side, a red light lit up, and Alfred tugged on his sleeve.

"Oh," Bruce said, hanging up, "Nothing, sorry, wrong number—" he removed the distorter, "—just Batman making a house call," Bruce said dryly.

"That was close, sir, another ten seconds and they'd have found us," Alfred said, wiping sweat from his forehead.

"We probably should forget about paying her a visit as well," Bruce commented. "We've done all we could for now, let's go home."

* * *

"Who is the Batman?" 

"I don't know."

"You're lying!"

"I'm not lying," Rachel lied. They were sitting in a nondescript office in City Hall, with a large number of guards on the entire floor securing the area. _Against the wrong target, _she thought.

Agent Moritz sighed and rubbed his head. Beside him, Agent Jones was seething in silence. "You've done a terrible thing, Miss Dawes," he said gravely.

"I haven't done anything," Rachel said politely.

"By giving Batman information about our contact, you've greatly increased the risk to her life," Moritz replied. "Our contact will be essential when it comes time to prosecution. Now, you've risked everything."

"Only if you persist in the ridiculous belief that Batman is connected to Green Dawn," Rachel spat. "Or have you forgotten how he foiled one of their attacks?"

"Clever terrorists are capable of anything, even betraying on of their own to hide a more valuable asset!" Jones snarled.

"Well, in that case, maybe you should question your contact a little more closely. How do you know Isley's legit?" The FBI agents both flinched when she said her name.

"Our contact has given us valuable information," Moritz replied.

"Didn't you say, 'clever terrorists are capable of anything?'" Rachel said, in a bad mimic of Jones' voice.

"We have all the evidence we need," Moritz replied coldly. "Don't you find it odd that the Batman and the League of Shadows—the group we believe was responsible for the attack on Gotham a few months ago—appear in Gotham City at almost the same time? And that a short time later ostensibly another group appears deciding to finish what the League started?"

"That isn't proof of anything!"

"Why don't you ask Batman yourself, seeing as how chummy you are with him," Jones sneered_. More right than you know, _Rachel thought.

"Even if Batman isn't involved with Green Dawn," Moritz said, holding up a hand as Jones leaped out of his seat, "you shouldn't have done this. We easily have enough to have you disbarred and sent to prison."

Her voice not as steady as she would have wanted, Rachel said: "I guess we'll have to see how it all turns out."

The two men looked at each other, then stepped back and began whispering. When they returned, Jones said stiffly: "Because of the ongoing need for secrecy, we will make a deal with you." He grimaced, as if biting on a lemon. "In exchange for not pressing charges, you will consent to constant monitoring and surveillance of yourself and your dwellings. Your phone and computer will have monitoring equipment installed. If it is determined in our investigation that the Batman is involved, you will be ordered to testify in court against him. Do you agree?"

It was more than she could have hoped for; the only drawback would be distancing herself from Bruce... and the Batman. "I agree," she said softly.

"Good. We'll make arrangements immediately." The two men left.

Alone, Rachel wiped away a tear_. I hope I haven't screwed things up too much, Bruce. Good luck, Batman.

* * *

_

Bruce was not at all surprised to learn that Pamela Isley did not show up to work the next day.

_Back to square one,_ Bruce thought morosely. With Isley having gone to ground, his only lead into Green Dawn was no more. Worse, at any moment the authorities beyond Gotham might go all-out after Batman in the near future to protect their 'source'. Bruce had taken every reasonable (and more than a few unreasonable) precautions to shield his Dark Knight persona from the life of Bruce Wayne, but there was no such thing as absolute secrecy or security, and if the powers that be put enough resources into it, eventually they would find him out.

For the first time since he started, Bruce began to wonder if this was still the right course of action; it would be _so_ easy to just walk away...

But then Bruce saw the faces mocking him—Joe Chill, Falcone, Crane, even Ra's himself. He also saw the faces looking at him in hope—the people who he had managed to save in person, the faces of grateful citizens on the news later. _One man can make a difference,_ his mother had once told him.

_Who am I to ignore such wise advice?_ Still, there didn't seem to be much hope.

Whatever would happen, Bruce would not act rashly or hastily. As soon as he could, he would convene with Alfred and Lucius, and bring up the unthinkable. No matter what, he vowed not to dismiss any idea out of hand. Whatever was the right way to proceed, he would do so, without hesitation, without regret.

It brought him a sense of closure, but it did not give him relief. Without any more delay, he got back to work. _After all, this may be what I have to do for the rest of my life..._

* * *

It was nearly four in the afternoon when his secretary buzzed him. "Mister Wayne, you have a message." 

"Okay, patch me through."

"No, it's not a phone call. You have an envelope here."

_Again?_ "Okay, send it in." Bruce wondered if it was Rachel again.

The secretary came in and brought the plain white envelope, on which his name was neatly stenciled. _Not Rachel._ Opening it, there was a small piece of paper and a business card. A fragrant aroma, something ineffable, wafted out. He read the letter first:

* * *

_I'm sorry I left without saying anything, but I'm in danger right now.  
It's complicated so I won't go into it now._

_I've thought a lot about what you've said, and it's gotten me thinking.  
I'd like to see you again if that's possible._

_If you're interested, just stop by. If not, then forget about me and stay away,  
for your own safety. But I hope you will come._

_Pamela Isley

* * *

_

The business card was printed on violet paper, and in the middle it said in curvaceous gold letters:

_**Club Evolution**_

Flanking the title on both sides were two verdant green ivy leaves.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

* * *

"So, how do I look?" Bruce pirouetted in place, his voice and movements exhibiting an uncharacteristically genuine gaiety.

Alfred was not amused. "Dashing as always, Master Wayne," he grunted. "I never thought I'd say this, but I actually wish you were going out in your suit tonight—your _real_ one, that is."

"I can't say I disagree," Bruce agreed ruefully. "But sometimes, you just have to change things up." He turned back to the mirror and appraised himself once more. Normally, in getting dressed for the occasion Bruce would find himself staring back an immaculately groomed man in an elegant suit or tuxedo. More recently, he had grown accustomed to gazing at the black shadow of the Batman. Tonight, however, and for the first time in ages, Bruce was dressed for a night out.

His gel-slicked hair slick was a shimmering, curly mess worthy of the ad pages in _Vogue_, while a long day's worth of stubble darkened his features. He wore a silk maroon shirt, unbuttoned halfway to reveal his chest (but not too much, lest he show off his bullet scar), the sleeves curled up to reveal his muscular forearms. The black pants he wore were not quite as form-fitting as the loins of his Batsuit, but anything more than a glass of water tonight and he would regret it. A dark brown leather jacket and a jaunty beret completed the look.

It was not arrogance to acknowledge that, even without his financial background, more than a few women would be competing for his attention tonight and beyond. _But I am seeking an audience of one tonight. Will this draw her in, or push her away?_

Over his shoulder, Alfred muttered: "I'm sure 'She' will have no complaints."

Bruce heard the rebuke in his tone, and it distressed him greatly. "I know you think this is reckless, that I'm walking into a trap," he began.

"That's because you are, sir," he said stiffly.

Bruce sighed. "It's a risk, but a good one. We need to know what her angle really is. The FBI thinks she has info, and there's only two explanations why: either she was a Green Dawn recruit, or she's actually a Green Dawn mole. If it's the former, she's reaching out to help Bruce Wayne in some way, and that'll help me get a lead on them—"

Alfred interrupted him, literally spitting his words in fury to hide his fear: "—and if she's working for them, she might be luring you to your death!"

Biting his lip, Bruce nodded. "Possible, but I don't think so. She left her calling card, with her name, remember. That's not the way Green Dawn operates; they like to strike without any warning, gives them the advantage of surprise. Even if she is working for them, she won't try to kill or kidnap me, at least not tonight." He shook his head emphatically. "No, if she's working for Green Dawn, she's trying to recruit me."

"It's an awfully thin supposition on which to bet your life."

_No doubt_. Trying to mask his own worry, Bruce said confidently: "I know, but that's been true since Day One. I need answers from her, Alfred, and Batman can't beat them out of her." He gestured at himself. "Hopefully this will do the trick."

Alfred still looked skeptical. Bruce began to get annoyed. "Alfred, this is a reconnaissance mission into potentially hostile territory. It's risky, dangerous, but it may be our only chance to get a crack at Green Dawn. Sometimes you have to use dangerous means to achieve the goal. It has to be done, and I need you behind me."

Finally, to Bruce's immense relief, Alfred abruptly smiled. "Well, if I were her, I wouldn't stand a chance."

"If you really were her, though, I'd want you to!" Laughing, the two men exchanged friendly punches.

* * *

Those moments of tension and levity with Alfred now were like a lifetime ago to Bruce. _Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil..._

"—If David ever walked Gotham, he might have," Bruce muttered to himself.

In Gotham City, one needed only to walk a few blocks or so to go from the highest of high society to the utter dregs of urban catastrophe. There was no rhyme or reason to it: one minute you were enjoying all the benefits of city life in the crowning jewel of Western civilization, then a few buildings down and BAM! _The darkness hits you, sometimes literally... sometimes permanently. _The horrors of the alleyway where Chill had murdered his parents were forever etched into his memory, but with effort he could remember the ornate beauty of the opera house's entrance as well. It was one of the things which made life in Gotham City so miserable for all but the most fortunate: death and mayhem could be around any corner, and could happen at anytime.

Being able to transcend that innate sense of fear had made the Dark Knight possible. But now he was but a man again. _As a man, I'm flesh and blood, I can be destroyed. _But there was no point in backing out now.

The address for Club Evolution was somewhere in Brightenville, a old neighborhood of Lower Gotham that was surrounded by many depressed areas, but was itself not totally lost. The roads were so dilapidated, however, that he had to get out of the car several blocks away and make his way on foot through the warm evening air. Walking south on Wenton Ave, he noticed that while this particular area the buildings and stores appeared to be in good shape and well-attended, there were almost nobody on the streets; the few who were seemed to be coming or going in a hurry.

As he passed West 23rd Street, the numbers of people about began to increase as the quality of the structures fell. It looked like the kind of area where young people who wanted to live in the city but couldn't afford better would live—shabby but bustling. Loud music of various kinds leaked out onto the streets from oddly-shaped buildings on both sides of the road. Past 21st Street was Lowelltown, a terrible crime-infested rathole even the cops feared going into, but at the corner of Wenton and 22nd he turned and entered the dense sidealleys at Aron Lane. Numerous people were now rushing about, yelling and laughing, many of them clearly under the influence of various noxious and illegal substances.

"Hey man, watch it!" Someone shoved him roughly, but he maintained his balance. Spinning about, Bruce saw the back of a tall lanky man disappearing into the night. Turning to his left, he saw it: the sign for Club Evolution, neon green letters hanging over the door of a rundown red-bricked office building, yellow lights pulsing out from the upper story windows. There was a good-sized line of people waiting outside. The crowd was an interesting mix, some dressed in homely rags, others in typical college gear, some even more stylish than himself. They were almost all young adults, of every mix of race and beauty.

A pair of bouncers, a thin man with spiked blue hair wearing a chain-studded jacket, and a much bigger and more intimidating figure in a gray jumpsuit were checking the people out before letting them in. Somewhat self-consciously, Bruce put on a pair of shades. When he finally came up to the entrance the thin man said: "You look like you're part of the Machine."

Something about that word caused Bruce's mind to stir, but nothing more came to him. Eager to avoid scrutiny, Bruce said laconically, "Just looking for a good time."

The guard peered closer; Bruce noticed the faint tattoo patterns on his cheeks, and the not-so-faint metal studs in his nose and tongue. "You're cute."

"You're not my type."

"Go ahead, we always need more good fauna." With a crooked smile, he stepped aside and gestured to the door. Bruce entered, and after paying the entrance fee, he walked through a set of doors which led to a long black staircase. Walking up, the intensity of the music and the drug cocktails continued to build, to the point that when he reached the top his ears and nose were both buzzing. Throngs of people passed by going down, laughing and chattering.

The doors opened into a massive dance chamber, where a harsh yellow light bathed the area and the music rose to ear-shattering levels. _Gunfire isn't this bad,_ Bruce thought as he pulled out a pair of earplugs. _Must be getting old! _The noise now became a dull thudding. Taking a deep breath, he began walking around the perimeter. He was on the second floor of a three-floored enclosure shaped as a giant hexagon. Looking out and down, the main dance floor was below him, while another floor was above. At each corner was a spiral helix staircase, and the bars were on the first and second floor along each side of the hexagon. In the center of the ground floor was an smaller elevated hexagon, densely packed with clubbers.

It looked like the people were having a good time; some tiny part of him would have liked to indulge as well, it had been a long time since he had. _But I have a job to do. _He made his way clockwise around the second floor, pausing and staring at the ladies passing by. More than once they stared back with interest, but he would ignore them and continue on, harsh comments about his sexuality sometimes following after him. _Not on the second floor._ Now he went in the opposite direction, the thin metal railing flexing alarmingly under his left hand as he stared up to the third floor. Plenty of women who were drinking, chatting, smoking fending off advances, making out, but he didn't see Pamela. _Come to think of it, this is an odd place for someone like her to frequent. _He could imagine Isley sitting in a coffeshop, or curled up with a book on a Saturday night, but not here.

She wasn't on the third floor. "Oh, boy." Taking a deep breath, he descended a staircase and began walking towards the center of the crowded dance floor. _If someone wants to knife you, you'll never see it. _Undaunted, he continued his search for Isley. Trying not to look out of place, he began dancing his way forward through the crowd. The jerking movements of his legs and torso felt... strange. Or more precisely, undisciplined. Years of martial arts training gave him a near-perfect control over his body, and in many ways his experiences in hand-to-hand combat had elements of a dance to it. _But this is not a dance, _Bruce remembered grimly when Ra's so thoroughly schooled him in their first fight. He felt self-conscious, but then realized it was ridiculous to do so, since everyone around him was doing it as well, most better, some even worse.

Up ahead there was a tall woman with reddish hair ahead; he pressed forward. At the top of his lungs he yelled, "Pamela!" but she didn't respond. He got closer and shouted her name again, but again there was no reaction. For good reason: seconds later she turned around and Bruce realized it wasn't her. Sighing, he turned around and reversed directions. He was halfway out when the music stopped. All around people began cheering and clapping. Removing his earplugs, the indistinct words of a man became clear: "—midnight, so to ring in the next stage of evolution, please welcome tonight's Earth Mistress, Poison Ivy!"

A roar of approval, much louder without the earplugs, rose from the crowd. Everyone around him turned and looked upwards. At the other end of the dance floor, someone was slowly climbing up the stairs. The yellow light had vanished, replaced by a bright white spotlight shining on the figure.

_Poison Ivy? No_—Pamela Isley!

The more Bruce stared, the more incredulous he became, for she was nothing like the Isley he knew—except that she was. She looked amazingly tall and slender, dark green boots tipping off her long legs sheathed in forest green fishnet stockings that stopped just short of her pelvis—he could tell because she was wearing a brazenly short miniskirt, also made of some dark green cloth. Her matching short-sleeved blouse clung tightly to her upper body. Cut off just beneath the bosom, her midriff was bare, and she left her front half-unbuttoned, revealing a black-lace push-up bra that provided a shapely cleavage where to his best recall none had existed before. She wore shimmering dark gloves (latex?), and her hair was blazing red. As she walked to the second floor all the men and many of the women watched transfixed, Bruce among them. Straining, other details became clear: her eyes seemed to glow green in the intense white light, which also made her skin seem extremely pale, literally white as a sheet. She wore two ivy-leaf earrings, while a thin ivy-leafed vine ran down each arm from her shoulders to her gloves. Finally (and this was a detail Bruce would remember for as long as he would live), her lips were painted blackish green.

She strutted towards a small podium overlooking the crowd below, and once there her voice echoed from the speakers: "Welcome to Evolution! Mother Nature is forever, so let's party in Her Name!" She flung her arms up and out like a priestess ministering to her flock, and the music roared back to life. She began to dance in place, and everyone had resumed dancing as well. Going through the motions, he continued to watch Isley, her movements burning into his memory, a heat rising within that had nothing to do with the actual temperature inside. But even as he continued his faux-dancing, even as the admixture of hallucinogenics, uppers, downers, and God-only-knew-what else floating around singed his nose and eyes, Bruce's mind was racing. _Obviously Doctor Pamela Isley, Ph.D., has a side to her I never knew about. _

Pamela Isley—or Poison Ivy, a name that now seemed doubly appropriate—had stopped dancing and was walking away, leaving behind a trail of disappointed men. There was a cold grin on her face, arrogant and proud, the kind that beautiful people could flaunt in the presence of the homely, the one that said: _I'm hot and you're not. Deal with it. _

_Maybe Alfred was right, and I better get out of here._ The probability that she was dangerous was tilting in the wrong direction, and he would make a tempting trophy for Green Dawn. But then he convinced himself: _you still have no proof, and unless you make sure the real minds behind Green Dawn might get away. _With some reluctance, but without hesitation, Bruce moved to intercept.

* * *

Pamela was now on the ground floor, walking around the edge, greeting people but never stopping to chat. On either side of her were two tough-looking individuals who Bruce surmised were her bodyguards: a thin, wire-strong black man with dreadlocks, and a heavily-tattooed white woman with spiky blond hair.

Near one of the bars, Bruce emerged from the crowds and boldly stepped in front of her. "Evening, Pamela," he said with a smile, removing his shades.

Pamela cocked her head to one side, gazed at him inquisitively, then smiled. "Bruce, darling, what a pleasant surprise!" Her voice was confident, strong, yet vapid—the complete opposite of the Isley he thought he knew.

"I wanted to see you again, thanks for the invitation." He gestured at the dance floor with his eyes. "Wanna dance?"

"Love to." She nodded to her bodyguards, who nodded back and stepped away. They made their way to the edge of the floor, where they began dancing.

"So, you're 'Poison Ivy' now, eh?"

"My club name, picked it myself. Kinda spicy, isn't it?"

_No doubt. _"Sorry, I'm not very good at this," Bruce said as he flopped about. In truth he could do better, but he found himself having to concentrate very hard not to be distracted. For some reason, pulling his eyes away from her became difficult, even... painful?

"Actually, neither am I." As a guy Bruce knew that a woman would have to literally be a dancing elephant not to look better, but to his surprise what she said was true: if one ignored her striking face and slender hourglass figure, she danced like—a geek. _Apologies to all my engineering friends from college._ Given how gorgeous she was, it was amazing that her disjointed moves actually seemed to detract from her appearance instead of aiding it.

"I work here now, since I have no place else to go," she said as she turned around and backed into him, so that they were dancing in close proximity. Instantly the fragrant smell of her hair flooded his nose, sending a new surge through his body. As she continued dancing, he found his body moving in sync with hers, almost reflexively. To Bruce, she was now the best dancer in the world.

"Strange place for a microbiologist to end up in," he said with a shaky voice.

"Well, this world doesn't want their women using their brains," she said. "I've decided I'm no longer going to fight the Machine, but join it, and use my _natural _assets to making a living now." Another guy came up to her in front, filling Bruce with charged jealousy. Pamela flicked her wrist at him and he seemed to stagger away, which made him feel _much_ better. "Anyways, the night life isn't so bad. If you've got it, flaunt it, right?" She turned around to face him, and they were now almost jowl to cheek. A few inches shorter than him, she wiggled her chest back and forth suggestively, gazing back at him with those incredible green eyes, making Bruce sweat. He noticed a tiny painted ivy-tattoo on each cheek below the eyes.

"Dontcha wanna just forget about it all and party like there's no tomorrow?" she said gaily, her voice bubbly and insipid.

At the moment the suggestion was very tempting, but having been given an opening, Bruce took it. "If we don't do something, there won't be a tomorrow." He stopped dancing and turned away, heading for the bar. Turning his back on her made him nervous, anxious. _Will she follow? Or attack?_

Wiping the sweat from his brow, he sat and asked for water. He was sipping it when Pamela sat down next to him, wearing an insipid girly smile. "Come on, Bruce, forget about the world's problems. Let's go back and dance!"

Bruce blinked. "I thought you wanted me to come here and talk about things."

Her smile was even wider now. "Nah, I just wanted to see ya. Who cares about things like the environment anymore? I sure don't." She made a dramatic gesture. "Nope, party harty, that's me now!"

"Are you sure? You mentioned you were in trouble, I heard a little about it."

She shook her head. "Nothing major, it's all in the past now. Nope, as long as I keep my head down, everything's okay."

"I wish I could forget about our dying world so easily." Sighing, he continued: "Sorry, didn't mean to bring you down. I was kind of hoping you still cared about the environment, still wanted to do something for nature. But if you don't, I understand, it's your life." He turned away from her and moped over his cup. "We have to do whatever we can, even if it's not enough," he said sadly.

Pamela pouted. "That's so sweet," she sniffed. Without warning she surged forward, took his head in her hands and kissed him, a short but wet one full on the lips. Pulling away, she said: "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that, but I wanted to make you feel better."

"I, well, uh," Bruce noticed a tingling sensation in his lips, swiftly spreading to his entire body. Pamela was in front of him, and everything else seemed to fade into the background; her features were boring into his brain, making it impossible to look away.

"It sure is hot in here, you must be thirsty, have a drink."

It was hot, but he had just had a sip. The more she looked at him, however, the more something seemed to swell inside of him, making him thirsty. Without further thought, he nodded and took a sip.

Smiling, Pamela said: "There, doesn't that make you feel better?"

"Oh yes," Bruce murmured. It was becoming increasingly difficult to think, see, hear, taste or feel anything except Pamela. The tingle in his lips became a more prickly sensation, and suddenly Bruce realized something had happened. "Excuse me," he said, getting off the stool and taking a napkin to wipe his mouth.

"Oh, you don't want to go anywhere right now, do you, Bruce?" She placed a hand on his cheek, which sent shockwaves of pleasure through him. Trembling, he put his hand over hers.

"No, well, I guess not," he stammered, sitting back down again.

"Much better," Pamela said beaming. She came forward and leaned against him, toying with his hair and stroking his thigh, maintaining the sense of euphoria he was feeling. When she stopped, however, a dark depression washed over him. He almost cried out, 'Don't stop!', but gritting his teeth, he managed to do so.

"Tell me, Bruce," she said conversationally, "do you really want to save the world from itself?"

"Oh yes, yes I do," he said instantly. Her smile of approval made him feel better.

"Why? What made you pick up this cause?"

"You mean, why do I do... what... I do?" That seemed wrong, he didn't want to tell her _that?_

"Yes, tell me, why are you really here?"

_To see if you're part of Green Dawn, _Bruce thought. Seeing that she wanted an answer, he said so: "To see if you're part of Green Dawn."

Her mouth gaped open. "Green Dawn? What makes you think I'm part of Green Dawn?"

He shouldn't have said that. "Well, I..." He _really_ shouldn't have said that!

"Go on, tell me, please?" Abstractly he noticed that she had removed the glove from her left hand, rubbing her fingers together.

How could he disappoint her? She was so lovely, so beautiful... "Ra--uh, someone in the city government mentioned you were an informant." He felt terrible saying it, but then felt better as she continued to smile at him.

"Very interesting! And why do you want to know if I'm part of Green Dawn?"

Bruce didn't answer at first; thinking about anything but Pamela was becoming increasingly difficult. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea," he thought, unaware that he had spoken as well. Staggering, he almost dropped to the floor, and in confusion he got up and began to stumble towards the exit. Before he could take a few steps, however, strong hands pulled him back. It was her bodyguards, who roughly dragged him back to the bar. Despite their strength, Bruce would have been able to break free, but Pamela Isley was once again standing in front of him.

"Don't go, Bruce, I just want an answer to my question. Here, this will make you feel better." She fluffed her hair, and suddenly Bruce found himself in a faint purple haze. Before he could stop himself he had inhaled some of it, and once again the dreamy feeling of joy filled him. He relaxed in the chair, his mind once again focused on how lovely Pamela was. _What a sexy outfit she's wearing! _He admired the sassy, confident image she projected; her skimpy dark green outfit was both revealing yet covering the important areas, making you focus even more on what was hidden. He felt certain that he could get to that, if only he pleased her, and answering her question seemed the best way to do so.

"I... want to know... because... I... " he began. It was difficult, because he wanted to tell her the truth, but something kept insisting he not do so. It filled him with pain that became more intense the longer he kept from answering her question and making her happy. Then he realized he could still make her happy if he told her part of the story.

"Yes? Don't hold back, Bruce, tell me, and you'll make me happy." Her left hand was very close to his face. He wanted her to touch him again very much, and nothing would make him happier than knowing she was happy.

"Because I want to join you." He felt much better now.

Her hand abruptly fell away. "Why would you want to join Green Dawn?"

He didn't want to join Green Dawn, he wanted to destroy it. Or did he? Would telling her that make her happy? Bruce wasn't sure, so he said part of the truth. "Because I want justice to prevail."

Pamela leaned closer, until their noses were practically touching. "What makes you tick, Bruce? Why would a billionaire like yourself risk everything to join an impossible crusade?"

That sounded like she was asking about why he was Batman, but then again, she didn't ask that, did she? But in many ways it was the same thing; injustice in life had sent him on a different path. So he told her how he realized after his parents' deaths that he had to go beyond society's restrictions to bring about true justice. That was all the truth; the details about his detour in Asia, meeting Ra's and the League of Shadows, and the specific way he went about fighting for society by donning the mask of the Batman, those were just details, which would just clutter up the story. He felt shame in lying to her about it, but then he wasn't really lying, was he? Just not telling the whole truth. Hopefully she wouldn't be too unhappy.

Pamela fell silent. Then she smiled and said: "Thank you, Bruce, hearing all that makes me very happy."

Bruce beamed. "I want to make you happy, Pamela! Anything else?"

"Yes, one last thing." She lifted her right arm and began rubbing what appeared to be a small tattoo of a cherry on her elbow. The tattoo became moist, as did her finger. She then lifted the finger and held it under Bruce's nose. "Inhale."

Eager to make her happy, Bruce did so. Immediately he began to stagger. When he came to his feet, there was a dazed look in his eyes.

"Pamela? Pamela Isley?" he said uncertainly, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, what were we talking about?"

"Nothing important, I just heard what I needed to hear. It's getting late, you'd better go home now. Get a good night's sleep, and I'll tell you more about what you need to know tomorrow."

His mind was very hazy right now, but hearing Pamela tell him what to do made him feel better. "Right! Will do, Pamela!" Smiling, she patted him on the cheek and turned to leave.

Bruce Wayne was happy, happier than he'd ever been. The issue about Pamela's hidden persona was troubling, but as long as he made her happy, and she made him happy, the rest could wait. He left in a hurry, eager to go to sleep as he had been told to do.

* * *

"Don't you think we should have killed him?" Halley asked by her side

"I agree, he knows too much," Khalfa said at her other side.

"He knows something, but nothing we haven't already revealed to mislead them," Pamela said as she watched Bruce leave the club. "On the other hand, we now know a great deal."

"Surely you don't believe he wants to join us," Halley snorted, a rare public act of disbelief in her leadership.

"Actually, I do. You saw how hard he tried to hide the fact from me, it's a secret that he must have been keeping ever since his parents died." Her voice became somewhat dreamy. "You see, unlike most of the ruling classes, Bruce knows the hard reality of life. He must have spent years dreaming, anticipating, thinking of a way to act, and only now with the benefit of our example, he sees an opportunity to strike back."

"Are you sure you're not just trying to convince yourself," Khalfa asked skeptically. "I saw how you were looking at him, maybe your thinking isn't entirely clear about this?"

"Please!" Pamela snorted contemptuously. "My thinking is as clear as distilled water. Bruce Wayne the man is nothing to me, if we need to kill him I won't give that creature a second thought." She paused. "But Bruce Wayne, as CEO of Wayne Enterprises, could be a useful ally. If he comes to our side, if he could even convince others to do so, perhaps humanity will not need to be taught the final lesson."

"I still think we should kill him," Halley said. "I'd like to kill him myself."

"He's just a man, so one day he will die like everyone else," Pamela replied. "If that day should be sooner than later, you may personally do the deed.

"I look forward to it," Halley said eagerly.

"If it becomes necessary, so will I. Let's go. I think I know how to put my new puppet to good use."


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

* * *

For the first time that he could remember, Bruce Wayne was happy to be at work. _Pamela told me to be happy, so I am happy._

He was happy—about being at work, and about Pamela—but the fact that he was doing nothing except sitting around in his office… bothered him. When she greeted him at the entrance to Wayne Enterprises this morning, she had told him to wait for her instructions and in the meantime do nothing. Of course, he obeyed, but it was surprisingly difficult to sit around and do nothing; something within him seemed to urge him to action, any action. Pausing, he searched within himself, and could almost grasp it: a spirit or something, struggling, fighting to break out. Curious, he was tempted to let it out, but that would mean doing something, and Pamela had told her not to do anything, so instead he sat in his very plush seat, kicking back and waiting.

Time passed, and the urge to do something grew ever stronger. It was becoming increasingly difficult to resist, but before it became unbearable, Pamela finally came in.

"Good morning, Bruce!"

"Good morning, Pamela!" She was lovely as always, wearing her white lab coat and glasses, her hair up in a bun. Before he could react, she was in front him, her glisteningly moist hand inches from his face_… Flashes flickered before his eyes; her clothes darkened, taking on greenish hues; her hair seemed to float free from her head, swirling about in an agitated crimson whirl. Her lips beckoned, closer and closer…_

"What?" Bruce shook his head. Breathing deeply, he suddenly felt at ease again.

"Are you feeling good, Bruce?"

Was he? "I'm not sure… should I—"

"Of course you do! You feel wonderful, don't you?"

Thinking over her words, he slowly but surely was feeling better. "Oh yes, Pamela, very good!"

Pamela smiled, which lifted his spirits even higher. "I'm so glad to hear it. May I ask a favor?"

"Anything, Pamela."

"Would you sign this? There's something I need to do, and I just need your signature so I can get on with doing it." Nodding, he reached out to sign it, but she pulled it away. "No need to read it, now, is there?"

Signing a piece of paper sight unseen felt… wrong, somehow. But Pamela was standing there, a slight pout on her face. He couldn't deny that.

"No problem." He took out a pen and held it out. Pamela proffered the form, and he signed it. "Anything else?"

She smiled. "No, that's all. You can go about your daily affairs now, but remember: don't tell anyone about me or what we're doing. That would make me… unhappy, and you wouldn't want to do that, would you?" She placed his hand on his cheek; it made him shiver as his body convulsed in reaction to her touch.

"Absolutely not!"

"Good. If you're not feeling good, read this, and everything will be all right again." Bruce nodded eagerly as Pamela handed him an envelope. "Till then!" She waved and left the office. Seconds later, the intercom on his desk started buzzing.

"Mister Wayne," his secretary said in an agitated voice, "there are four people on the line, insisting on talking with you! I don't think I can put them on hold any longer."

"Very well, put them through."

For the rest of the day he went to work with great diligence, in part because that was what Pamela had told him to do. He was in the middle of working through a mountain of paperwork when his cellphone rang. Annoyed that someone had interrupted his duties, he said curtly: "What is it?"

"Mister Wayne?" It was Fox. "I just wanted to confirm this transfer order with your signature on it, from one Pamela Isley."

The mention of her name sent a flare of anger through him. "Pamela Isley is no concern of yours!"

There was a pause on the other side. The old fool sounded surprised: "Uh, if you say so, but this is a most unusual request—"

"None of your concern, Fox, do you understand me?"

"Very well, Mister Wayne, but I really think—"

Bruce was so angry he slammed the cellphone down, knocking the battery loose. Silencing it made him felt better. With a smile, he went back to his paper work.

* * *

Bruce and Alfred ate dinner in silence. Every time Bruce lifted his head up, he noticed Alfred was casting furtive looks in his direction. When he could stand it no more, Bruce dropped his spoon down, causing a loud clang. "What?" 

"Sorry, sir, I just wanted to know about last night. Did you find anything?"

"I—" All of a sudden, he had difficulty speaking. The image of Pamela floated before his eyes. As he tried to speak, she was kissing him, preventing his lips from moving.

Alfred got out of his seat. "Are you all right, sir?"

"I'm fine," he said quickly, trying his best not to bring up the subject of Pamela. After all, that was what she wanted.

"Will you be going out tonight, then?"

"Sorry?"

"As Batman." Alfred's eyes narrowed. "Green Dawn is still on the loose, I was wondering if you had some other idea."

"'Other idea'?" Bruce found himself curiously unable to move.

"I assume your meeting with Doctor Isley at that club last night has disabused you of the notion that she is involved in Green Dawn."

"Yes, yes! Exactly!" It seemed like forever since he had donned the suit, but a torrent of memories poured into his head. _Of course_ Pamela had nothing to do with Green Dawn—she said so, didn't she? He couldn't quite remember, but he was pretty sure that's what she said. "This… this is a bit of a setback, we may have to go back to the drawing board." He smiled awkwardly, trying to ignore the beads of sweat dripping down the side of his face.

"I see," Alfred said noncommittally. "In that case, are you still going out on patrol?"

_Yes! I have to! _"No, I think I'll turn in early tonight." After all, she didn't say she could go on patrol, did she?

A flicker of surprise passed through Alfred's face, but it vanished quickly. "Very well, sir. I'll clean up."

"Thanks." He got up and hurriedly went to bed. Bruce felt dizzy; he felt powerful impulses washing over him—he wanted to contact Pamela, talk to her, see her, smell her… but he also felt a new impulse, nameless fear—of her. He was so jittery, he jackknifed out of the bed, landing with a thud on the floor. _What's happening to me?_

He splashed some water on his face, which made him feel better. _Concentrate on Pamela, that will help…_ He did so, and all his discomfort leeched away, as he recalled her wishes more clearly. _Say nothing about me,_ she had said.

"My lips are sealed," Bruce said happily, drifting off to bed.

* * *

Bruce woke up with a start. He felt cold, clammy; his hands were shaking badly. Slowly, Pamela's image came to mind again, but this time instead of evoking soothing sensations, he felt a terrible craving. Over and over he tried thinking of anyone, anything to push her out of his mind, but she was still there, her smell and taste. The sensations made him sick; he barely got to the bathroom before totally losing it. 

_What the hell is going on? _Bruce thought, bewildered. He had to do something, quick, or he'd go crazy. He opened the mirror and scowled at the spare medical cabinet. As a rule, Bruce distrusted medicine and drugs, so he tried to avoid pharmaceutical aid whenever possible. Till now, it had always seemed like a good idea.

Cursing, he went back to the bedroom. On the desk, there was a plain envelope with the words, 'Important Reminder' on it. For the life of him he couldn't remember what it was for, but something impelled him to open it. He did so, and found a lavender cloth with Pamela's picture on it inside. Taking it out, a powerful jolt hit him; it took him a moment to get his bearings, but when he did, he felt completely normal again. Holding his hands in front of him, they were rock-steady. Now, he remembered exactly what he had to do, because it was written on the cloth in his grasp.

In his office, Bruce was perfectly content sitting at his desk, doing nothing once more. The buzzer on his desk wailed out again and again, but he ignored it. The TV was showing the latest outrage committed by Green Dawn, and the horror it provoked vanished as quickly as the morning dew—it was nothing to worry about, he was sure she said so.

It did seem odd to be doing nothing, but that was okay. Once he heard from Pamela, he would know what to do.

His happy nothingness was rudely interrupted by the unexpected opening of the door. In stepped Fox. He was annoyed, angry, but because he had been told to do nothing, he did not respond. Even as the tall elderly man walked towards him, he did nothing, although with Fox standing right in front of him, Bruce decided it would be okay to do at least something.

"I left instructions to be left alone," Bruce said harshly.

"Sorry, Mister Wayne, but it couldn't wait. I want to talk to you about Doctor Isley."

The moment he spoke those words a spark ignited within Bruce. With a cry of inchoate rage he leaped to his feet, certain that he had to act to eliminate this threat to Pamela. However, the fact that she had wrote to him to do nothing unless she said so caused him to hesitate—unsure of whether he should kill Fox, or do nothing, he froze in momentary paralysis.

His arms stretched out at Fox, Bruce was even more surprised when Fox pulled out a gun and shot him. Blackness instantly consumed him.

* * *

With a triumphant grin, she saw that the final test results were positive_. It's finished!_

Pamela Isley was extremely happy; infiltrating Wayne Enterprises had proved more profitable than she could have imagined. With access to their sophisticated labs and supplies, she had been able to cut weeks off her final schedule. _All I need is another night, and I can begin!_

Carefully she loaded her samples into a travel kit, and picked up a small box of supplies. There was just one last detail—

"You! Isley! Stay where you are!" _As I was saying..._

Smoothly she rotated on her lab bench to face Daryl Issacs, the supervisor for this lab, a lab which she technically did not have access to, but had managed to acquire through gentle amounts of 'persuasion'. Two security guards were with her.

"What can I do for you, Mister Issacs?" she said innocently.

"You're in big trouble, lady, not least because you shouldn't be here," he said crossly.

"Mister Wayne himself said I could be, you can ask him if you'd like—"

"—Mister Fox has final say over laboratory access for employees, and he expressly refused your improper attempt to bypass protocol. We're going to take you in for questioning, we have been investigating missing supplies for days now, and we think you have something to do about it."

Pamela nodded, and got off the bench. "Very well, we'd better go." She started walking towards the door, as all the other people in the lab watched in confusion. Behind her, Daryl began running after her.

"Stop, you do what we say—"

"—and that is your first, and last mistake, when it comes to me, Daryl." Turning to face them, she smiled sweetly. "Better take a deep breath," she said, as she pulled the fire alarm.

Instantly the sprinklers showered the room in a fine mist of water. Normally nothing to worry about, except Isley had yesterday spent the evening preparing her escape, and had attached a tank filled with concentrated hydroflouric acid to the sprinkler system. Immediately the dozen people in the lab began shrieking and falling to the ground, as the chemical sank through their skin and began reacting with the calcium in their blood, sending them all into calcium shock. They twitched horribly, then died. Fortunately for her, her implants were now flooding her bloodstream with all the calcium gluconate necessary to counter the effect. Elsewhere, the hydroflouric acid burned and dissolved all the exposed electronics in the laboratory. By the time security made their way in, there would be no trace of her presence.

Walking out the door, alarms began ringing through the building. She had slipped into a decontamination room, gotten cleaned up and left the building just in time before security arrived. _Like he said, I shouldn't be there, and everyone who knew I was there is now dead._ "Therefore, I was never there," she chuckled.

Stepping outside into the late afternoon, she made her way back downtown. There were many things left to do, but once they were done, she would bring down the Machine once and for all.

* * *

"He seems to be coming to," a distant voice said. 

"Let's hope he's finally clean," another voice replied.

Bruce realized he was strapped to a gurney. Straining, he turned his head, and saw several IV-lines running into his left arm. Looking around, he realized he was in one of Lucius' personal laboratories, where he did his special 'evening' work.

"How are you feeling, sir?" Bruce saw Alfred standing over him, a look of concern on his face.

_I'm not sure, _Bruce thought, because he wasn't. Opening his eyes, he took in a few deep breaths. Aside from a growling stomach and the beginnings of thirst, he felt—

"—Fine, Alfred." Bruce smiled reassuringly. That seemed to relieve Alfred, for he smiled as well and patted him on the shoulder.

"Hope you're feeling like yourself again, Mister Wayne," Lucius said gruffly as he came to Alfred's side. "Let's make sure, shall we? Tell us what you know about Pamela Isley."

_Pamela Isley…_ A jumble of impressions wafted by, many of them unpleasant, but none of them definite. "I'm trying to remember, it's a bit of a blur, the last thing I remember was seeing her in that club…"

Lucius smiled. "Looks like we broke the spell. Excuse me." He came up and undid the strap that held him down.

"Thanks," Bruce said uneasily, sitting up and rubbing his chest.

"Sorry about that, sir, but Alfred told me you didn't seem quite yourself, ever since you went to investigate Isley. 'That witch has him under his thrall,' I believe those were your words?"

Alfred smiled. "Well, almost; I don't think I said 'witch'…"

The two men laughed, and after a moment so did Bruce. "You're lucky Alfred is such an astute judge of your character, otherwise we might never have been able to help you." He paused. "There's no exact scientific term for what happened to you, so I made one up. What happened to you I call, 'pheromone-induced psychosomatic compulsion.'"

Puzzled, Bruce said: "I think I know what happened, but hopefully you can tell me why."

"After I neutralized you with that sleeping dart gun, I had you quietly brought down here and a complete series of blood tests done. Your samples were filled with an amazing number of drugs and chemical compounds. Some of them were memory-suppressors, things that would make you forget things that had happened shortly before they were administered. Others were various trace elements of poisons and toxins—fortunately for you, or you wouldn't be here anymore," Lucius said over his glasses. Bruce nodded.

"Finally, I found a whole series of unusual chemicals: female hormones, antidepressants, and one unknown compound which I eventually identified from the information you got from Cataldi. Something called RTN-335A, or what they called 'Atlas', a drug designed to increase sexual desire."

"Quite a cocktail," Bruce mused. "I remember finding Isley very attractive—so much so it was hard to keep it down—but she was beautiful regardless." Bruce fell silent. "Everything else is a haze. I remember doing things, but not being told to do so, it seemed like I was just acting out of my own free will."

"Despite the compulsion caused by the drugs, in a way you still were," Lucius said gravely. "Think of a narcotic addict, they'll do almost anything to get a fix, and while the addiction is compulsive, they still retain the ability to choose their actions. This 'Atlas' drug has a similar addictive effect. But the interesting thing is that your blood was filled with drugs that suppress sexual desire as well. It seemed contradictory, but then I realized that the use of both at the same time would cause withdrawal symptoms to manifest much quicker, leaving a person desperate for a fix. By being next to you as the addictive effect hit, Doctor Isley became the manifest means by which you could satisfy that craving. If she managed to give you more of this Atlas after you agreed to do what she asked, she would have sealed in your mind the belief that doing what she wanted would restore the pleasurable effect."

It took a while for Bruce to digest what he said, but when he did the ramifications were so horrifying it took every ounce of willpower to keep from exploding. "So you're saying Pamela Isley definitely has the ability to compel men, however she does it, to obey her?" Lucius nodded.

Bruce swore, liberally and lengthily. The thought of not being fully in control of his mind and body, that someone else was playing him like a puppet, was so disgusting he almost vomited again. The bones in his hand creaked under the pressure of his fists curling up. Rage approaching the anger he felt as a little boy coursed through his veins.

"Of course, this is all merely informed speculation," Lucius added.

It took some time for Bruce to cool down. Sourly, he said: "No, I'm sure you're right. Think about it, how many times has Green Dawn managed to pull off seemingly impossible attacks? Attacks that required improbable inside help? Take the bombing of Gotham Financial—she must have drugged Lewison and forced him to sneak that bomb inside. My God!" Bruce shuddered. _If Isley had 'suggested' something like that to me, would I have done it? I might have!_

Lucius asked: "How did she administer the drugs to you? Most of these chemicals would have to be ingested or injected to work."

"I'm not sure," Bruce said morosely, "my memory of the last few days is all mush."

"Try, sir. I injected you with some neurotransmitter stimulants, they should help amplify your memories, if you concentrate hard enough. Think back to the first time you met, and take it from there"

Bruce did so. The last memory he had was going into the club, so he concentrated from that time onward. The void slowly formed into new images: lights, sounds, sensations. He remembered her in her incredibly forward garb, blazingly gorgeous even without her sinister cocktails. Focusing, time slowed…

…_Without warning she surged forward, took his head in her hands and kissed him, a short but wet one full on the lips. Pulling away, she said: "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that, but I wanted to make you feel better…_

"It was on her lips!" Bruce exclaimed. "She kissed me, and then I started feeling funny—no, yes, then I couldn't keep my mind off her. She then said, 'Have a drink', I wasn't thirsty, but I did what she said. Damn it!" Bruce slammed his right fist into his left hand. "She must have painted the chemicals on her lips, to use whenever she wanted."

"Maybe, or maybe something else," Lucius said guardedly.

"What do you mean?"

"I managed to recover most of the deleted files that you downloaded," Lucius began. "Before Isley started working on the Atlas project, she was working on implantable Islet cells." Responding to Bruce's blank looks, he continued: "She apparently perfected a technique where you could implant almost any kind of celltype into the body. She was able to implant allograph Islet cells for diabetic patients, cells that could produce insulin, but in theory it would be possible to implant any kind of cells, including those modified to produce certain specific organic materials. Things like methanol, cyanide, curare, tetrodotoxin. Sound familiar?"

Bruce thought for a moment, then it hit him: "The poisons used by Green Dawn, both before and after Cataldi! So you're saying she… produced them? Like a snake?"

Lucius nodded. Alfred said: "Are you saying she's _literally _poisonous?"

"Exactly."

"Jesus, maybe she can secrete poisons from her saliva, or possibly her lips, maybe even her fingertips." Bruce was thunderstruck. "No need to sneak the poisons past security, or risk getting caught administering them, all she would have to do is whet the edge of a glass, or scratch someone with her fingertips, or even just kiss them!" Agitated, Bruce began to pace, lost in intense thought. "That would explain it, yes indeed, that would explain a lot of things." Abruptly he stopped. "Wait a minute, if Isley produces these poisons from these implants, wouldn't they poison her as well?"

"Not if she also created cells that could secrete the antidote," Lucius replied. "Implant cells that make methanol and its antidote, fomepizol; tetrodotoxin and neostigmine, you can go down the list."

Thinking about that, more things fell into place. "Of course! That's how she could have handled all those poisons without any special protective equipment. No need to hide a gas mask when you're poisoning people with nerve gas if you've already got the antidote inside you. No need to wear gloves while using curare if you're already immune."

Lucius said: "She must be the best molecular biologist in the world, to do even half of what we're talking about, simply incredible."

The rush of information and their implications churning in Bruce's mind, a final revelation suddenly became clear: "Lucius, Alfred, Pamela Isley—Poison Ivy—she isn't just a member of Green Dawn, she _is _Green Dawn. Everything they've done, everything they could do, all of it comes from her genetic powers." Even as he said it, the implications staggered him: Pamela Isley, a mild-mannered, attractive scientist passionate about saving the environment—a cold-blooded sociopath responsible for killing more people than Ra's and all his minions had managed to not long ago.

_And what could she do next? _"She had to be looking for something. Lucius, what did Isley manage to get from Wayne Enterprises?"

Now Alfred and Lucius were grimly silent. "What? What is it?"

Fox said gravely, "I went behind your back, sir. I told security not to give Isley access, but apparently she managed to get it anyway. A few hours after we brought you in, there was an accident in a lab at Wayne Enterprise—hydroflouric acid spill, fifteen dead. It was a lab Isley may have gotten access to, although we have no proof she was there at the time."

A deathly chill filled Bruce. "She did it," he said quietly. "Did she take anything else?

"From another lab, there are twelve liters of ultra-pure growth agar missing," Lucius replied instantly. "You use it to grow cell cultures."

Bruce was no scientist, but he wasn't ignorant, either. "Is she planning to… plant new cells inside her, so she can use new poisons?" _I didn't know there were so many._

"That, or she's planning to grow some other kind of microorganisms."

"Like anthrax," Bruce said darkly.

"Or worse," Lucius replied.

For a moment there was silence. Bruce said: "We have to stop her. Let's get to work."

* * *

The next few hours were among the most stressful in Bruce's life, and given all he had endured that was saying something. Given that Isley had managed to fool the FBI into believing she was an informant, he simply couldn't trust going through official channels to have her apprehended. Not telling even Rachel or Gordon troubled him, but he decided it was the safer thing to do. _Besides, Isley managing to subvert his mind and will to her nefarious purpose was an insult that required a very direct, very individual payback._

Perhaps he was mistaken, but Bruce considered his motivation an asset and not a liability.

They had to make their move against Isley tonight, if it wasn't already too late—Bruce knew the location of Isley's main hideout and probable base of operations at Club Evolution, which she used presumably as a cover for her recruitment activities, but she might have vanished already. _Even if they did, they might have left a clue. _Bruce did not remember seeing any obvious defenses, and he was willing to gamble that like most terrorists, Isley preferred security through stealth. He and Alfred painstakingly poured over the maps of the neighborhood Evolution was located in and the blueprints of the structure itself. Fortunately, there were almost no readily-accessible mass transit lines or roadways nearby for her to make an easy escape.

_How many other members in Green Dawn? _Knowing what he did now, probably fewer than he thought at first, given that Isley was not only the scientific brains behind the group, but its main operative as well. They might be armed, but in the confined spaces of a nightclub, Bruce was confident of his abilities. And whatever her intelligence and cunning, Pamela Isley, Ph.D. was probably not an accomplished street fighter, so apprehending her would be a straightforward task.

_Unless…_ If what Lucius said was true, however, there was theoretically no limit to the array of toxic weapons Isley could use against him or other innocent bystanders. After brainstorming a lengthy list of potential agents, Lucius bluntly reminded Bruce of the old aphorism, 'an ounce of prevention is better than a pound of cure.' With that, he told Bruce to forget any idea about carrying around cures and antidotes, and started work on perfecting the NBC protection of the Mk III suit.

Bruce was still worried—no matter how good the passive protection of his Batsuit, experience taught him that you needed a backup plan. But Lucius was right: there was no way to protect against every poison out there, so why bother? While Alfred made dinner, Bruce struggled to find a way to cram as many antidotes on him as humanly possible. The real problem was not so much carrying antidotes as administering them in the unlikely event the suit was breached. _That_ was a much more difficult problem, so much so Bruce reluctantly decided to abandon it.

Another unpleasant thought occurred to him: what if Isley had managed to enhance herself in other ways? _What would you do if she was twice as strong as you, or twice as fast? _The idea was absurd, and yet... _I need more weapons._ Did he dare contemplate using a gun? Chances were, she wasn't immune to a bullet. It disturbed him that it took a long time and much thought to decide no. Agitated, he tried to think of other things. _A taser? _He thought back to his first encounter as Batman with Rachel and smiled. _Next._ The next obvious thing was some kind of tranquilizer, but a moment's second thought quickly revealed the flaw in his logic. _If Isley protects herself against poisons, she's probably protected herself against non-lethal agents as well._

Looking for any edge he could find, Bruce decided to flip through the reports Lucius had managed to salvage. Almost all of it was completely over his head, but he was able to follow the executive summary Isley had wrote for Staughton. _Was it before or after she killed him? _Bruce thought sourly. The writing was cool and precise, befitting a scientist of her stature. Then he suddenly felt a great sadness. _What could possibly have turned her into such a monster? _As much as he wanted and looked forward to the justice system punishing her, he still wanted to know _why _she did it. This was not something he had thought much of when he first started, but things were not so black and white, and if there were ever to be a permanent solution to Gotham's woes, a whole lot of Whys would have to be answered. _But will we like the answers?_

As Bruce scrolled through long inventories of laboratory items and materials, his eyes started to blur. Munching on a sandwich, he was about to go and check up on Lucius when he paused—something caught his eye. Reading more carefully, it led to a thought, then another, and another. Reasoning through the causal chain, he arrived at a startling endpoint.

Bruce got up quickly; now he had something very important to discuss with Lucius.

* * *

"Bottom line, do you think it would stop her?" 

"Stop her? Hell, it would probably kill her. I know that's not your style, but frankly I wouldn't lose too much sleep over it." Lucius was typically a genial, gracious man, but there was no warmth in his voice as he said those words.

"I would." Bruce was surprised that his suggestion had more than the desired effect; normally life didn't work that way. But despite all she (probably) did, all she was guilty of, he didn't want to kill her. _That's very important to me. _In dark times like this he wondered whether he would rather be killed than kill, if he had to choose. _Next question!_

"If we used a different preparation," Lucius began.

"What? What would happen?"

After a pause, Lucius said: "You could use it."

"Do it."

* * *

It was past eleven in the night when it was time to act. 

"Anything we missed?" Bruce asked, looking at Lucius and Alfred.

"Everything's ready on the equipment side," Lucius responded.

"It's a good plan, sir, you'd have made a fine officer," Alfred said, unable to hide his proud feelings about Bruce. "Just remember what happens to plans when they first make contact with the enemy."

"Unlike them, I intend to survive," Bruce said dryly. Lucius and Alfred smiled, but only a little. His smile fading, Bruce said determinedly: "The three of us, and Rachel and Gordon, we've made a difference in Gotham City. Your efforts and sacrifices are every bit as important as mine—none of us could have done it without the help of everyone else." Now he smiled. "I only wished I didn't need to rely on you as much as I have, for that would mean that Gotham was back on the right track. It's started down that direction, but as you know the last few months we've had to face a terrible menace. Again, thanks to the efforts of everyone here, and those who aren't, we're very close to putting an end to their crimes once and for all. All that remains is this last step, but unfortunately it's the most perilous one of all."

Bruce paused for reflection. He started speaking again: "I won't lie to you, this will be very dangerous, and some of us may not make it back. But no matter what happens to us, we're going to stop Green Dawn—stop Poison Ivy—once and for all. And we're going to do it without losing our humanity in the process. Alfred was the one who told me about a favorite saying of my mother's: what you do in life sometimes doesn't matter as much as how you do it. It's something I've always tried to uphold in my own life. Tonight, everyone, friend and foe, will not only know what we stand for, but that we go about it the right way." He grinned again. "Maybe not the 'legal' way all the time, but definitely the right way." That evoked chuckles from the other men. The laughter died quickly, though. When Bruce spoke again, he was very quiet.

"Still, this is first and foremost my fight, my burden, and I have no right to ask of you more than you have already given. If this doesn't go to plan, if something happens to me, your first priority is to alert the authorities… and not to save me." Lucius and Alfred shifted, but Bruce continued: "This is the last thing I must ask before we start: do I have your word, gentlemen, that you will do that?"

There was but a moment of hesitation from the two older men, who in different ways looked upon Bruce as the son they did not have. The possibility of losing him, like they had lost his parents, pained them deeply. But they were men of duty first and foremost, and nothing made them prouder than the fact that this haunted young man had grown up to embrace a duty so much larger than himself. Only that fact made their decisions possible.

"You have our word," they both said unstintingly.

Bruce Wayne nodded. "Let's go gentlemen. Good luck to us all."


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

* * *

…_Atop of the dark building, the dark figure moved like shadow, disrupting the darkness. The shadow was about to take flight again—_

—A door to the roof flung open, bathing the area in a harsh fluorescent light.  
"I'm tellin' ya, I heard sumptin'!"  
"Der's nuthin' here, man!"  
"Mebbe it's da' Batman?"  
"Man, you crazy, ain' no such thing as—"

"—the Batman?" spoke the darkness.

"**_AAAAAAAHHHH!"_**

The two husky men screamed as the blackness in front of them lashed out and smashed them senseless.

* * *

He looked down sourly at the two thugs—no doubt guarding some illicit operation taking place below. On a normal night he would descend and put an end to their misdeeds, but he had far bigger fare to take down this evening, and precious little time. 

"Tonight, the good guys fight back," Batman said with a cruel grin. Turning around, he fired his grapple gun and leaped from the top of the building to swing over to the next.

He had stealthily made his way across the dilapidated rooftops of Lowelltown, heading north towards Brightenville. Off to his right, the blazing towers of Central Gotham illuminated the sky, but the immediate neighborhood he was traversing was nearly completely black. The hapless residents of this rough part of downtown either lacked the ability to pay for more electricity, or preferred the darkness as a shield for their evening activities. Tonight, the dark and rough nature of this borough played to his advantage: no doubt this was the last place from where Isley—_Ivy?—_ would expect anyone to come after her.

He swooped across buildings on foot and by air. Batman had nothing but praise for his new suit: lighter, stronger, more flexible, he hardly noticed he was wearing it (as much as a man could ignore forty pounds of skin-tight clothing). Most important, he was barely sweating; the improved cooling system made the chemical protection much more bearable. It gave him an uncommon confidence, feeding a thirst for battle he had to keep in check—if everything went right, he wouldn't need to fight much. _Then again, if they want to start something, it'll be my pleasure finishing it._

The activity below began to increase; more lights, more sounds, more people. Just ahead was 21st Street; Ivy's club was only a few buildings over. He checked his watch: it was just past one in the morning. Batman was extremely worried he was too late, that Isley had decided to make her escape. But by now he had a good idea of what made her tick, and he was fairly sure that the Doctor's main weakness was overconfidence. _She's so smart, and her plans have worked so well to date, she can't imagine that anyone is on to her. And the only man who might be, she still thinks he is under her sway,_ he thought with no small anger. Against his better judgment, he had told the press only that it was an industrial accident, and not an attack by Green Dawn, hoping that would help lull Isley into feeling safe. If it worked, it would soon be over for her.

_Didn't think highly of Batman, did you Ivy, when you tried to set me up? _He thought tightly. _Thought I was just another muscle-headed moron, did you? Well, you had the chance to get both Bruce Wayne and Batman__, but you thought you could handle Bruce Wayne. Instead, you're going to get Batman's fist of justice. _At least, he hoped she would.

There was a large crowd of people milling about in front of the various club entrances; several policemen were patrolling the area on foot, trying to keep the rowdy partygoers in line, and failing completely. Indeed, a few of them seemed to be engaged in less-than-lawful activity. _They'll get theirs_. Looking through binoculars, there was no sign of Ivy around.

_Time to fly. _Batman got up and leaped towards a large commercial building. Extending his cape behind him, it slowed and steadied him enough so that he was able to land on the exterior stairwell in an upright fashion—a memory of his first leap into space running from Gordon flashed before him, and his left shoulder twitched. Rapidly climbing up, he ran across the rooftop until he was right above Evolution. He looked around and found a service entrance on the side. A few minutes passed by, then the door opened. Three people walked out—it was Poison Ivy, flanked by a tough looking woman in leather and studs, and a tall thin man whose demeanor was more hip-hop than revolutionary. And _Pamela…_

…Heart racing, despite his anger Batman again found it difficult to take his eyes off her. You couldn't get away walking down the Financial District at high noon in her get up, but here and now, in these dirty back alleys, surrounded by the degenerate, pulsating nightlife of the City, those brash fishnet stockings, miniskirt, open blouse and silk gloves clothing her stunningly beautiful face and figure, made her into a presence which… _compelled_. Batman laughed bitterly. _It's ironic: I am forced to terrify everyone in order to bring about justice. She uses beauty and charm for the purpose of total evil. _And yet, on a first encounter, who would the average person be inclined to follow?

Batman pointedly refused to answer the question. Scowling, he sealed the transparent flap across his mouth. _Air tight—at least, I hope so._ Shifting, he adjusted the microphones in his cowl's ears and slowly leaned his head over the side. It was a risk letting them walk free for a while, but he wanted to see if he'd catch any important snippets:

"—_You're right, she's probably another pathetic attempt by the police to infiltrate."_  
"_How are you going to kill her?"_  
"_I have something new which should be suitably long and painful."_  
"_Good. And what about Wayne?"_  
"_No one knows where he went. Do you think he might be dead?"_  
"_I didn't poison him that much, merely suggested he lay low. Perhaps he overreacted. Oh well, it's no big deal—I'll just fix him to do my bidding again!"_

The bubbly amusement in her voice over her intent to mystify him again was the last straw. Batman leaped over the side of the building, holding the repelling rope in his left hand while raising his right arm for battle. Seconds later he landed in the alley ten feet in front of them.

* * *

"It's over, Ivy," Batman said curtly. "You're coming with me." 

A bright smile erupted on her pale face. Gaily she replied: "Oh, Mister Batman! I've heard so much about you! I'm afraid my shift's over at Evolution, girl's gotta get her beauty sleep. But if you come back tomorrow—"

—Batman rushed her—

—and the other two rushed him. The three of them collided in front of Ivy, falling to the ground in a tangled heap. Batman scrambled to his feet and barely missed getting a roundhouse kick in the jaw from the man.

"Allow me to introduce you to Thistle and Thorn," Ivy said conversationally. "These are the people who are going to kill you."

"Don't bet on it," Batman muttered as he parried another kick from the man. He was a relatively light-skinned black individual, a bit taller than him, with a tightly-braided goatee and hair, thin but with wire-steel muscles. The woman, muscular with spiky-blond hair, now wielded a chain with a heavy metal bar at the end in her hand, trying to circle around. Grinning ferally, she twirled it at high speed, a vicious grin on her face as she suddenly flung it at Batman, hammer-throw style. Avoiding yet another impressively athletic kick to his head, he partially dodged the chain—it smashed into his shoulder rather than his torso, sending a broad shock to his side that was almost too painful.

Backing off, the other two put themselves between himself and Ivy, who was idly standing by, a curiously attentive look on her face, as if she were looking at a specimen in a microscope. Her female bodyguard had a leering, ugly sneer on her face, mouthing obscenities about men and machines as she stepped towards him. By contrast, the man wore a grim, determined look on his face, saying nothing.

More and more bystanders apparently had taken notice of the fight and were beginning to come closer to get a view—many cheered for the bodyguards, some for him. Batman had no time to thank them as Thistle and Thorn attacked again, expertly spacing and timing their thrusts so that it was nearly impossible for Batman to focus on taking them out one at a time. The man (was he Thistle or Thorn?) used his long legs to kick at his knees, more than once almost connecting in a blow that would have instantly crippled him. Alarmed at the potential effectiveness of this unimposing man's techniques, he concentrated on avoiding him while the woman came straight on at him. Backing up and turning simultaneously, he temporarily lost his footing on some loose pavement, which let the woman wind up and fling the chain at his face. He raised his arm just in time to keep his windpipe from being crushed, but this time the pain was excruciating as his left arm went numb. Tumbling backwards, he grabbed the chain with his right arm and pulled, causing her to fall towards him. On the ground, neither of them had time to get up; they rushed each other, grabbing, kicking, cursing.

"I'm going to rip your—" She never had a chance to finish the sentence, as Batman did a reverse-head roll with her in his grasp. Now on top, he backhanded her full-force across the face, causing her head to snap back and hit the ground; she instantly went limp. At the same time, sensing the other was about to strike, he leapt as far as he could, then frantically got to his knees, searching for the man—

—_Urgh!_ The grunt exploded from him involuntarily as a heavy crowbar rammed him in the gut, driving him back. Batman barely was able to parry the follow-up blow to his face as the man closed in, so close that Batman had no leverage on him. Wielding the bar two-handed like a kendo stick, the other man pressed on fearlessly, constantly aiming for Batman's face, parrying then lashing out unpredictably while trying to kick him in his knees and crotch. _He fights like I do now—to win, and not to score points._ After repeated blows to his chest and shoulder, Batman finally was able to guess right and grab the crow bar just before it caught him in the throat. The two of them wrestled with each, and across from him the other man began to sweat and grunt from the effort. He was fast and flexible, but Batman had the edge in strength, and by repeatedly twisting the bar one way then the other, he finally managed to wrestle it free and slam it across his forehead. He dropped without a sound.

_Where's Ivy? _He whirled about and saw her off to the side, talking to a police man. He nodded and turned slowly to face Batman, reaching for his gun. Desperately, he rushed towards him, grabbing at his right arm. As he did so the cop fired twice, narrowly missing Batman, but causing those in the crowd to scream and scatter. It didn't take much effort for Batman to subdue the bewitched policeman, but by the time he did so he saw Ivy get up from the side of her fallen guards and run back into the club.

Batman pulled out his radio and said: "Send word for reinforcements this location." He then ran inside.

* * *

Ignoring the startled looks of the clubgoers, Batman raced up the stairs. He burst out onto the second level, looking down at the tightly-packed mass of people dancing away. To his surprise and suspicion, she was in the center of the platform, standing idle, smiling at him. 

_Let's finish this. _With a flourish, he leaped down to the ground floor, barely avoiding several screaming patrons. Now the music stopped, and everyone focused their attention on him.

Batman determinedly made his way towards Ivy, who looked down at him from the central raised platform. Approaching her, he could hear her say: "I give you one last chance, Cog of the Machine: join my struggle, or die."

Snorting, Batman replied: "I'm going to enjoy sending you to prison for the rest of your miserable life."

Blowing a kiss at him, Ivy said: "I will take that as a No." Picking up a mike, she pointed at him and cried out: "Children of Nature! Seize the Despoiler!"

The throngs of clubgoers suddenly surged forward, men and woman all around him with a crazed, furious look in their eyes. Acting instinctively, Batman lashed out, breaking arms and noses, trying to keep the others at bay. Unlike the last time he was in a situation like this, he was unable to get the grappling gun deployed before the masses surrounding him had immobilized him. Struggling, he broke free again and again, but the sheer mass of people around him slowed his movements to a crawl, and then to a stop—he couldn't move even an inch now. Batman silently cursed himself for assuming that her mental-compulsion ability only worked on one person at a time.

_I have an unfortunate habit of underestimating my enemies. _If he survived this, he swore to do things differently in the future, although the prospects for doing so appeared increasingly unlikely.

Poison Ivy was all smiles now. She strode imperiously toward him, almost a caricature of a model walking down a catwalk. On all sides men were staring with that desperate blank look in their eyes; several were trembling.

Batman recognized it for what it was. "Fight it, fight it! Don't listen to her, you can break free!"

Most of the men and women paid him no heed. But as Ivy approached, one man suddenly jumped in front of her and said: "Uh, Poison Ivy, maybe we should let him go?"

Ivy paused, looking at him quizzically, then smiled and patted him on the cheek. "That's so sweet." She then came up and kissed him. Instantly he flinched and began to convulse. Paying the twitching, dying man no heed, Ivy was now standing in front of him, an innocent smile on her face.

"Some movement you've got, Ivy," Batman sneered. "If your cause really was worth anything, you wouldn't have to hypnotize people to follow you." From the crowd, he saw Thistle and Thorn make their way towards her, hobbling a bit. They took their place at Ivy's side, the seething expressions on their faces leaving no doubt as to what they wanted to happen next.

"Everyone here agrees Nature must be saved," Ivy replied mildly. "But most of them aren't brave warriors like Thistle and Thorn," she said, gesturing to them. "Sometimes, they just need a little 'motivation' to resist the Machine and its henchmen." She cocked her head. "One must wonder what nefarious powers the Machine has on _you_, mysterious stranger, to make you so ardently defend the ancien régime? Tell me, what institution of despoilment commands your wings?"

Being called a tool really made him angry. "I'm no one's Janissary," Batman growled.

Ivy's smile became positively beaming; she clapped happily, like a little girl getting a pony. "Is there erudition as well as brutality beneath that mask of yours? What other delightful paradoxes lie within!" She sighed. "If only one could dissect a mind as one does a body."

Batman seethed in silence as everyone around him laughed. "Alas, all things must come to an end." He involuntarily flinched, a reaction which made Ivy laugh. "Incorrect deduction, Mister Batman," she said in the voice of an imperious teacher berating a slow pupil. "I wasn't referring to your imminent demise." Now her smile faded. "I'm sure agents of the Machine are closing in on us as we speak. It is time for Samson to pull down the pillars. Time to make the Machine _stop._"

Her words made the woman grin, but caused dismay with the man. "Pamela, you can't be serious!"

"Of course I'm serious," she replied matter-of-factly, "The Despoilers have not ended their persecution of the Silent Ones in response to our pleas. Instead, they send their minions—" she pointed at Batman "—after us, and very soon more will be here. We must begin."

"It's too soon," the man insisted. "At least bargain with them, they might make moves in our favor—"

"—Moves are too late, there is nothing further to discuss." She turned to the woman. "Thistle, kill the Batman. Then we shall act."

Ivy turned to leave. The other woman pulled out a wicked-looking knife, and moved towards him, blood in her eyes. Batman went limp in the arms of his captors. _This will require the best timing in my life, which is just as well, since if I'm one millisecond off…_

The man (presumably Thorn) boldly stepped in front of Ivy. "No. We must deliberate." He reached out and gently but firmly grabbed her blouse.

Ivy looked down, then looked up at Thorn. "Release me."

"Freeze!"

Everyone on the dance floor except Batman looked up at the flurry of motion around the top of the hall. Dozens of police officers swarmed in, pointing guns downward.

Batman took advantage, breaking free and heading towards the nearest exit. In the commotion, Ivy called out: "Button #5!"

Instantly the sprinkler system activated, showering the hall. A faint bitter odor filtered into Batman's mask, while everyone except for Ivy, Thistle, Thorn and himself began coughing and choking convulsively. "Get them!" Ivy shouted. Many of the befuddled clubmembers began attacking the police, who struggled to fight back. A few of the officers before going down began firing wildly; bullets wheezed past Ivy. Thistle covered her, and was hit, falling to the floor.

* * *

Pamela bent down next to Halley, who tried to say something but couldn't as blood trickled out of her mouth. She shuddered once, and was still. Tight-lipped, she got up, turned to Khalfa and said: "No more debate. We act." 

Khalfa stood in front of her and pulled out a knife of his own. "I'm sorry, Pamela. I can't let you do it."

Pamela pouted, but did nothing as the chaos continued to unfold around them. Angered by her silence, Khalfa said: "Well, now what do we do?" Sweat broke out across his forehead.

"What do we do?" she said sadly. "We wonder why it took so long for my agents to take effect." Even as she said those words, a burning sensation seemed to erupt out of nowhere. Crying out in rage and horror, Khalfa tried to throw the knife at her, but the muscles in his arms, his legs, everywhere, became weak. He collapsed to the ground, unable to move as he began to feel pain.

Pamela leaned very close to him, almost lips to lips. Just before she was about to kiss him, she stopped. "I'm afraid I don't have time to be merciful," she whispered. "But I promise, it will end… shortly."

As she got up and walked away, Khalfa _really _began to scream.

* * *

Batman saw Ivy bend down over her fallen henchwoman. He was about to go after them but then he saw Gordon with another cop entering the ground-level entrance, a handkerchief over his mouth, struggling against eight clubmembers who were threatening to overwhelm them. Rushing to their aid, he swiftly dispatched them (it was difficult not to use full-force, but he realized that they were under Ivy's sway just as he was). Gordon was keeled over, hacking his lungs out, his hair disheveled and glasses askew. 

"Are you all right?" Batman asked.

Coughing, Gordon nodded. "This stuff's worse than any tear gas I've ever had." He coughed again, rubbing his watery eyes and setting his glasses straight.

Batman was grateful that whatever Ivy used wasn't lethal. _At least, _this_ wasn't._ Around him the club was rapidly emptying as hundreds of people were fleeing in panic, while many more still under the influence were shouting, "Kill the pigs! Bring down the Machine!" Some of them apparently had guns taken from the police.

Thinking quickly, Batman said: "Get all the able-bodied officers here and stop those rioters—some oft them are Green Dawn sympathizers, and they're going to try and create mayhem while the group strikes again. Most of them are under her hypnotic control," he said, having no time to explain the real reason. He only hoped the police wouldn't kill any of them—or at least, most of them.

Getting to his feet, Gordon wheezed: "What are they planning?"

_I don't know, but I think it's bad. _"I'll find out. You just take care of the others, call in reinforcements."

"They're on the way, I asked for them as soon as I got your message. Thanks again."

"No problem." _But don't thank me, thank Alfred and Lucius._ "Let's get to work. Good luck."

"You, too."

Out of the corner of his eye Batman had saw Ivy leave through the western exit. He was about to head after her when he came across the bodies of Ivy's bodyguards. The woman was dead, but the man was still twitching, groaning and screaming. _Ivy poisoned him—because he tried to betray her._ Immediately he dropped down to the man's side. He was not a pretty sight; pallid and sweating, his eyes glistened with moisture as blood dripped out of his nose.

"I… can't…" he croaked.

_No one should suffer like this,_ Batman thought grimly. "Here." He took a small needle from his belt and injected him—opioid derivative, very fast acting. _And one small step from being an illegal narcotic, but sometimes you have to bend the rules._

It seemed to work; he stopped screaming, and his breathing was returning to normal, although he still was sweating.

"Thorn, Thistle, whoever you are," Batman started.

"Khalfa," the man said.

"What's Ivy going to do?" Ideas floated in his head, each more terrible than the last.

"Sam…son," Khalfa said weakly. "S… Sm… Small… small…pox"

_Oh crap!_ "Smallpox, she's going to infect Gotham City with smallpox!"

"G…genet…" His voice was barely audible.

Thinking, Batman finished the thought for him: "Genetically modified, so no existing vaccine or drug will work. Where is it? Where did she go?"

"2…3…2…2... Martin…2 blocks…H..Q…there."

"Right," Batman said, getting up.

"But…traps…"

"What? What did you say?" But Khalfa would never say anything again.

Swearing once more, Batman ran down the stairs and out the building onto the street in front. All around there was thin chaos: gunfire and the shattering of store windows, fires and overturned cars, fights, curses and taunts. It was something less than a riot, but more than a disturbance. More and more police were chasing after people, and off in the distance he could hear helicopters on the way.

None of that mattered. "2322 Martin Avenue," he said to himself. Turning the corner, he ran into and knocked down a couple of young punks before they could swing at him—whether they were on Ivy's drugs or something else he didn't know or care—then got his bearings. _That way._

Batman began running down the street, away from the commotion, towards the dark buildings ahead.


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

* * *

Batman ran, not as fast as he can but at a steady, controlled pace, for there was no room for error now. 

…_Black sky above him, dark buildings around him, earthen pavement beneath him. He was in darkness, surrounded by darkness, _was_ darkness: black spirit moving through blackness itself…_

…_Black wasn't simply the color of his suit, or the tint of his hair. He didn't know what lay inside the heart of man – whether a soul, or spirit, or just physical memories, it didn't really matter. Inside himself… was blackness. Roiling nothing. Whatever normally lay inside a man's heart, it was no longer within him: it had been ripped out of him more than twenty years ago, in a dark alley somewhere beyond memory…_

…_The rage from that moment had never left him. It had grown as he had grown, taken a hidden life so potent, it was almost alive. In his teens, sometimes on a dark night, it would come out and confront him, try to urge him on to join it. A few times he had given in, with terrible consequences that (to his shame) he had successfully avoided. For a time as the years passed, the rage had subsided, but the dark wings had almost swallowed him up for good the moment Joe Chill came into his life…_

…_The neat thing about blackness was its nothingness: out of it, anything could come out, all one had to do was fill it with enough will, enough anger, to bring it into being. Ra's had channeled that inchoate nonspirit within, allowed Bruce for the first time to master it instead of giving in to its temptation. And although he never intended to, Ra's had also taught him the most important lesson of all: that his rage would eventually turn him into that which he hated most, unless harnessed to a higher purpose… _

…_Perhaps ironically, the blackness beyond had reached out to him and gave it to him, in the caverns deep beneath Wayne Manor…_

…_So the Batman was born. Constantly within him the battle raged: the darkness within himself, at war with itself, giving him his power and purpose even as it tried to subvert his higher goals. Fortunately, there was a compassionate part of him as well. Even more ironic was the fact that it had been born at the same time as the blackness, for before that time he was the typical pampered child of wealth, who had a sense of duty but never understood how hard justice was until much later. It was much less prominent than the blackness, but it was precious beyond words, for it channeled the blackness within him to a noble end…_

_Batman the Dark Knight: a terror to criminals, unleashing pain and suffering, breaking the law—all for the purpose of justice. It was his impossible paradox, enough to drive any normal man insane, but for Bruce Wayne it was as comfortable as a warm blanket._

* * *

Batman approached the dark warehouse at 2322 Martin Avenue. He took out his radio to contact Alfred; flipping it on, warbling static greeted him. _Radio jamming—gotta hand it to Ivy, she's covered her tracks well._ There was no time to get reinforcements. _No matter—I can take her._ Unconsciously, his hands flexed. 

Cautiously he came up to the side. It was your typical Depression-era industrial warehouse: a vast, stark building, made obsolete decades ago when manufacturers left Gotham City for cheaper locales abroad, somehow surviving to the present day. Looking up its rusted sides, he could see the hint of light glinting out from behind tightly shuttered windows. _Too high, and no way to climb up the side._ He would have to enter at ground level. His consternation made him chuckle. _I'm actually beginning to think like a bat._

Ever on the lookout for cameras or booby-traps, he came up to a battered door. Too strong to batter down, he quickly placed bit-explosives on the hinges, then stepped back and activated the detonator. A sharp bang echoed and the door fell to the ground.

He made a final check of everything before going in. _Suit integrity: check. Night vision and microphones: check. Mask…_ It was a bit loose, so he removed it. Before putting it back in place, he took out his lip baum and moistened his lips. _Never know when you might need it._ Of course, if it came to that—

—Abruptly the darkness within disappeared in a blaze of light. Now fully illuminated, the entrance opened up into a short corridor.

"Is that you, Mister Batman?" Ivy's voice rattled out from a speaker on the wall. "If so, please, come in! Let's chat." She giggled. "I promise, I won't kill you until we're face to face. Toodles!" The intercom went dead. He ran inside. Sprinting down the corridor, there was a plain wooden door at the end. Without thinking Batman barreled into it at full-speed, shattering the flimsy wooden structure.

Taking a few steps forward, he found his momentum stopped by, of all things, a tangle of leafy vines. "What the?" Brushing them aside, Batman found himself in the midst of what appeared to be a small tropical forest.

_Correction: not a forest, a greenhouse. _As far as he could see, the ground level of the warehouse was filled with plants and small trees of various kinds. They grew from large piles of dirt which covered most of the floor, except for twisting paths where the bare concrete beneath was visible. The entire area was bathed in harsh white light from lamps in the ceiling, and looking up there was a catwalk running along the wall fifteen feet above.

Ahead of him, the concrete path curved off into a tangle of ferns and vanished. Reluctant to go any deeper inside, Batman stayed as close to the wall as possible, feeling his way into the thick vegetation. He had taken a few steps forward when a voice from above echoed in the air. "Welcome to the Garden of Evil."

Looking up, Batman saw Ivy standing on the catwalk on the opposite side of the warehouse, more than a hundred feet away. She was leaning forward over the side, arms stretched out, that lovely and evil smile on her face.

"Forget about it, Ivy, you're not releasing that smallpox," Batman yelled. "Surrender now!"

Poison Ivy's eyes widened, then her mouth twisted into a sneer. "'Et tu, Khalfa? Then fall Man!' Sorry, Batman but it's time Mother Nature disowned her wayward children."

"No—" He broke out in a run, when suddenly Ivy pulled out a small submachine gun she was carrying behind her back. Bullets whizzed past him as Batman dove into a thick tangle of plants. Batman began to get up, then stopped: there was a hand sticking out of the dirt! Brushing aside the dirt, he swore inwardly as a withered human arm became visible. _My God, Ivy's using the bodies of people she's killed as fertilizer!_

Despite his horror, he did not move—his armor would protect his body, but he had to worry about poison, either in her bullets or from the very air and soil around him. With Ivy having the high ground, there was no way for him to use any of his toys to neutralize her, so he waited for her to make the next move.

Off in the distance, he heard Ivy swearing. "Damn, my shoulder," she hissed. Then Ivy laughed bitterly. "I'm just not a gun person. That was Halley's forte, and she's dead, thanks to you."

Actually it was the Gotham Police who killed her, but Batman did not argue. "Back to business," Ivy said. "I _will_ release my smallpox, Mister Batman, and inside a month human civilization will be no more." She giggled, like a teenager. "You see, I genetically altered it so that the standard vaccine will not work. Even better, when the Machine's doctors and scientists study my handiwork, there will be an obvious way to reengineer their vaccine to deal with my version. But when they do that, it will actually open up a new infection pathway, which will lead to certain death!" She laughed and laughed and laughed. "The Machine thinks they're so smart, but I'm smarter, and their one mistake will be their last."

Batman's stomach contracted in horror at her words. Normal smallpox would be bad enough, but if what she said was true (and he had no doubt she could carry it out), it would turn an epidemic into a worldwide catastrophe which mankind might never recover." _Even Ra's didn't want to kill everyone!_

_Perhaps I should use words._ "Ivy—Pamela, please listen to me," Batman yelled as he crawled behind a thick bush. "I know about your background, you don't want to do this. You've made your point, people can change. I can even pull some strings, get you leniency—" He dove as more bullets rained his way.

"Blast it, this thing just isn't for me," Ivy said, rubbing her shoulder. "Wrong again, Bats. Believe it or not, women can be just as dedicated to their principles as men can. My goal is right and just, and despite what you may think, this is the only way." She began circling about. "Humanity is doomed because it always destroys the very environment that sustains it. It cannot change: ten thousand years of history supports my view, and it only gets worse. So, before our actions destroy the entire biosphere, I will destroy humanity first. QED." She paused. "At least, the remaining Silent Ones will survive."

Horrified, Batman cried out: "How can you possibly believe that? Why do you hate people so much?" A sad wonder filled him.

Her voice was unnervingly cheery. "I don't hate people, I just love the rest of the world's flora and fauna more. The only thing I hate about people is their inability to live within nature's limits. Because our species cannot change, I am compelled to do this."

_Looks like we're past the negotiation stage. Very well._ "I've alerted the authorities, they're on to you now," he yelled out. "You won't last one hour before they catch up to you and stop you."

"Without your precious FBI and government agents, Mister Status Quo, I never would have made it this far," she taunted. "Besides, you're too late! All I need to do is step outside and exhale, my dear, and Mother Nature will take care of the rest." Batman risked looking up; Poison Ivy was standing erect in triumph. "If you surrender, I promise you a painless shedding of your mortal coil by my merciful hand," she said sweetly. "I suggest you take it, like so many others have. Because what's coming next will be my pitiless wrath."

There could be only one response to that. Standing up, he called out: "Bring it on, bitch."

"I don't know about you, Batman," she said in an ostentatiously sexy voice, "but I've found killing with my own hands is a _real_ turn-on." Then Ivy dropped the gun over the side. "See? I've decided to give you a sporting chance." She made a come-hither gesture with her gloved finger. "Come and get me if you can."

As she said those words, the entire room went dark.

Batman was very surprised that Ivy had literally threw down her guns, but if she had the delusion that she could fight him hand-to-hand, he wasn't about to correct her. Carefully he made his way through the dark green forest, now illuminated in a faint greenish glow from the night-vision attachments in his helmet, which hid his eyes behind a faint silver screen. Lucius had mentioned that it gave him the look of a sightless zombie and, to paraphrase, scared the pants off of him.

He stuck to the concrete paths, fearing what—or who—might be hidden in the dirt portions of the floor. Passing by some of the larger trees, he saw dozens of suggestive outlines and contours in the soil at their bases. _Sick._ If Ivy didn't surrender immediately, he would not be held responsible for what happened next.

Batman tried to head to the opposite side where there was a metal staircase which led up to the catwalk. Unfortunately, he didn't have time to search for the right path; for all he knew, Ivy had been misleading him and already made her escape. Gritting his teeth, he began a careful but rapid traverse across the muddy ground towards the wall, pushing aside plants, and trying not to be sick when his foot rolled over something long and hard and thin. He was halfway there when suddenly the ground gave way under him. Flailing wildly, he tried to leap in midair, hoping to use his momentum to hurl his body forward instead of downwards. He barely succeeded, falling roughly on the ground in front of him. He rolled on his side and looked back, startled to see a large pit with wicked spikes sticking out. Even with his armor, if he had fallen he might have been impaled, and either lacerated at best, or dead at worst.

"I hope you're more of a challenge than the others were," Ivy's voice boomed out from the intercom system in the ceiling. "Of course, they only had one thing on their mind when I killed them. What's on yours?" _Taking you down, that's what. _As he got up something flew through the air towards him. Instinctively he ran, and whatever it was hit the ground behind him and burst, spraying some kind of acid about which burned plants to ashes and made the soil bubble and fizz. Batman became increasingly alarmed: a direct hit by that acid grenade might have dissolved the seals of his suit, making it useless. Running all out, he reached the stairwell and climbed as fast as humanly possible up it.

The catwalk ran along the entire wall, just wide enough for one person to walk on. The wall was featureless except for an occasional door. He took out a set of binoculars, with infrared as well as low-light capability, searching for Ivy on the catwalk, then out in the main floor. At the far end of the catwalk was another stairwell, and he saw a dark shadow moving down—it didn't show up on infrared, and was barely visible on image-intensification. _Ivy!_ She was wearing some kind of cloak that hid her from detection. Running down the stairwell and out to the floor, she disappeared into the darkness. Fortunately, there was a solution nearby.

Flipping a set of switches, the lights came back on, and below he could see the dark-cloaked form of Ivy running towards the exits on the opposite side of the warehouse. Frantic, Batman looked up to the ceiling. Biting his lip, he took out his grappling gun and fired its cable at one of the overhead lamps. After it wrapped around, he tugged once to test, then leaped off the side and swung Tarzan-style towards her. In the middle of his swing the lamp tore loose from the ceiling. Batman was just able to roll to his side, cushioning his seven feet fall.

Dazed, he got to his feet. He was in a clearing, next to a small garden pool. Ivy was running towards the vegetation; he only had a few seconds. Reaching down, he took out his bat-shaped boomerang and flung it with all his strength at her. It struck in the back, causing her to tumble to the ground.

Stretching his arms and legs to relieve the soreness, Batman ran towards Ivy, who sprung to her feet, threw off her cloak and whirled about to face him. She raised her arms in front of her as if to box and said leeringly: "Going to hit a woman, are you?"

Batman hit her, a vicious right hook that would drop Ali in his prime. Ivy's head snapped back, but instead of toppling over, she quickly righted herself and shook her head back and forth, an angry red blotch spreading across her pallid left cheek. Blinking, she then said, "You'll have to do better than that!"

Batman was both dismayed and impressed: that kind of concussive blow normally instantly knocked a person out. _Unless you can release stimulants into your blood. _Even so, there were limits to what any flesh could take.

"More where that came from," Batman growled, as he slowly approached. "Don't be stupid, Ivy, that was just for openers." He raised his fists.

"I'm not scared of you, _Batman!_" Ivy hissed. She backed off, holding her hands out in a clawlike fashion. Batman noticed that the tips of the fingers on her gloves were cut open, revealing her fingertips and her pointed green fingernails. _Sharp enough to cut skin and inject her venom, but it shouldn't penetrate the Suit._

Smiling, Batman circled around her, saying: "This time, it's really going to hurt. Don't make this any harder for yourself."

"In a few minutes you're going to be begging for me to kill you!" Ivy screeched. She actually lunged at him, quick but with no subtlety, trying to grab at the more vulnerable face and neck. Casually he sidestepped her, pivoting back 90 degrees on his right foot. First Batman grabbed her right arm with his right hand and then sharply twisted it behind her back. Stepping directly behind her, he then grabbed her wildly dangling left arm with his left hand and similarly jerked it behind her, with such force that he could hear her bones creak as she shrieked in pain. The whole process had taken maybe five seconds. _Three months of desperate effort, and it all ends like that._ He couldn't help but feel some pride._ Not too shabby!  
_

Ivy continued to scream inarticulately in pain and anger, squirming and twisting, but Batman had her completely at bay. "Next time, you better try something better than those introductory co-ed self-defense moves," he said contemptuously as he pulled her arms even higher and pushed down, trying to force her to kneel.

"How about this?" Ivy stamped her right foot, then kicked backwards as she stood on her left leg. She missed wildly and then kicked again, and looking down Batman saw that the tip of her dark green leather boot's heel had broken off, revealing a silver stiletto-style point. Ivy kicked him in his right leg below the knee, and a sharp pain instantly bloomed, immediately followed by a dizzying bout of numbness which quickly climbed upwards.

In total shock, Batman felt the cold numbness shoot up to his groin, then down his left leg, and again up through his belly into his chest. Unable to move his legs, he toppled over, releasing Ivy as he landed on his side with a thud. _A paralytic agent! _He had a neural stimulant in his utility belt, but it would have to be injected, and how could he do that encased in his hardened suit? It was all academic anyway; by the time his left hand had fumbled to his side, it was as nonresponsive as the rest of his lower body. Incredibly, within less than a minute he was totally paralyzed, unable to move an inch. Worse, it wasn't just that he couldn't move his arms or legs—the muscles of his chest were not moving either. Even breathing became increasingly difficult.

For one of the few times since he became Batman, fear and panic now took control of him. As his mind began to disintegrate within his frozen body, a girlish laughter echoed in the air.

"See? What did I tell you" he barely heard Ivy say in the distance. At the moment, a clump of excavated grass which lay in front of his face took up the whole field of his vision. "That was a special gift one I managed to acquire from one of my victims: a dagger point made of tungsten-carbide, able to punch through any substance, and laced with my favorite paralytic agent, pancuronium bromide." He heard her walk towards him; his vision began to blur. "The mighty Batman, reduced to a helpless cripple," she said bemusedly.

His breathing had stopped; everything was becoming dark, and it took all his efforts to stay awake. From the farthest distance he could make out her words: "Oh dear, looks like I gave you too much. Wouldn't want you to die yet, the fun is just beginning!" Suddenly he was rolled over onto his back, staring upwards. The plastic flap covering his mouth came off, then the external vision pieces over his eyes. Ivy was now staring down at him, smiling.

"Let's see, definite respiration failure," she said in a mock clinical tone of voice. She then took a flashlight and shined it into his eyes. "Pupils nonresponsive to visual stimuli." Ivy clucked her tongue. "Don't worry, Batman, I've got just the thing for you." She pulled out a needle from her bag, lifted the edge of his cowl, then injected him in the neck. "This should get you breathing again. Let you live long enough for me to have some fun, at least."

For a few seconds nothing happened. Then his chest began to twitch, and with a great gasp he was able to breathe again. His vision quickly cleared, and as the terrible suffocating feeling passed, he was able to regain control of his faculties and think about his situation.

Not that it required much analysis: he was totally screwed.

"Much better!" Ivy said brightly. She turned his head towards her and patted him on the cheek. "Now, is there anything you'd like to say to me?"

Although he could breathe again, Batman could hardly do anything else. With concentration, however, he was able to gurgle: "…Give…up…Ivy…"

"Hmph!" Ivy slapped him across the face; his skin began to itch. "The least you could have done was apologize for so barbarically hitting me. What kind of a man are you?" she asked sarcastically. An unnerving smile appeared on her face as she leaned in closer. "I'm afraid you have to be punished, Mister Batman," Ivy said softly. "Your arrogant disregard of the destruction of nature is an unforgivable crime, yes indeed." She took off her left glove and held her left hand in front of his face. "Don't worry, this will hurt… quite a bit." Slowly she rubbed the tips of her thumb and ring finger together. After a while, they both became moist. Ivy touched the moist part with the nail of her ring finger, then swiftly scratched Batman on his left cheek.

Within seconds he was engulfed in pain. He couldn't say where it was coming from, because it was coming from everywhere: every part of his body was experiencing horrible pain, even parts of his body he didn't know existed. Burning, cold, laceration, impact, he felt all. Batman screamed in agony; even his paralyzed body began to twitch and shake.

"Pain is such a problematic biological response," Ivy said as she walked around Batman's jerking prostrate form. "For most life forms, it serves a vital learning purpose early on as it begins to adapt to its environment, but after that, most instances of nociception is counterproductive, as there is no way for the life form to deal with the stimulus causing the perception. Take yourself," she added. "I've injected you with a nociceptor stimulus, which means every pain receptor in your body is now firing at full-force. I'm sure you're feeling all sorts of pain, but the reality is that your skin really isn't on fire, nor is it being torn: it's purely a neurological phenomenon, 'all in your mind', as they say. Of course, I'm sure it doesn't feel that way," she added jocularly over Batman's continued screams.

Slowly the pain seemed to ease, either that or he was getting used to it. "Please…stop…" Batman grunted.

Ivy seemed amused. "It will stop when you die, my dear. I just haven't decided when to kill you."

He was out of options. _I hate to do this, but then again, they'll find out if I'm dead, too._

"Please," he rasped; the pain was decreasing, but it was still excruciating. "I… I want to… join you…"

Ivy laughed out loud. "That's the problem with torture: a person will say anything to make the pain stop, but you can never tell if they're telling the truth. Now why should I believe something so patently ridiculous as that?"

"Because… I tried to join with you before…"

"Really? And when was that?"

"At the club… a few nights ago… Pamela… I… I'm… Bruce Wayne."

Now Ivy fell into silence. Finally she said: "I guess I can confirm that for myself." She wandered over to him and, releasing the seals, began to wriggle his cowl off. She looked down: staring up at her, encased in the formidable suit of Batman, was the damp-haired, sweating face of Bruce Wayne.

Ivy smiled. "Many mysteries have now fallen into place. Thank you, Batman—Mister Wayne. As a scientist, I always appreciate the truth." Her smile became broader, flashing teeth. "Then again, you have also caused me great harm," she said, rubbing her cheek. "And it doesn't take a Ph.D. to know your real rationale is to save your own life."

His eyes widened. With a credible tint of fear he said: "Please, I'm begging you, the resources of Wayne Enterprises would be at your disposal. I… would be at your disposal."

"A tempting offer… but I have all the resources for 'disposing' of the great problem right here," she said, gesturing her backpack. "Strike two."

"Ivy—Pamela, I love you!"

Poison Ivy laughed—under normal circumstances, a very pretty sound. "That's the Atlas talking. I'm sorry, dear. I might have spared Bruce Wayne's life, but Batman must die. If it's any consolation, I can see to it that your body is burned beyond recognition, and that your secret dies with you."

Bruce sighed, as if to resign himself to his fate. After a moment, he said breathlessly: "Then at least kiss me, one last time, so your lovely face is the last thing I see."

She cocked her head in contemplation. "I can do that! And I've even decided to be merciful and give you a quick and painless death after all!" Laughing, Isley bent down and straddled Bruce's still-paralyzed form.

"I'm really not much of a kisser, but I'll do my best." Ivy then leaned forward and kissed Bruce, deeply and wetly on the mouth. Her pale face, green eyes and red hair filled his vision, as did the aroma of her essence, wafting into his nostrils, burning into his memory.

At last, she pulled away. "Was it good for you?" Ivy asked in faint mocking tones. Bruce said nothing, merely closing his eyes. Standing up, she then said: "Alright, playtime is over. Let's see, which toxin would be best?" She began counting off on her fingers.

"Excuse me," Bruce said. Ivy ignored him, so he repeated himself louder. "There's something you should know."

"And what's that?"

"You've been poisoned. Better surrender now so we can get you to a hospital before it's too late." Despite himself, Bruce couldn't help but smile, although it was as much a brave front as in response to the irony of the situation.

For a second Ivy did nothing, merely staring at him. Then she burst out laughing. "Me, poisoned?" She smacked her lips. "A clever ruse, Bruce, but there is no toxic substance in existence that can harm me; certainly nothing that you could safely put on your lips as well." The amusement on her face disappeared, replaced by cold fury. "For your act of bad faith, I'm going to make sure you die very unhappy." She took a step towards him.

"On the contrary, not only was it poisonous, but it was uniquely poisonous to you." Ivy kept coming, so he continued in rapid fashion: "Reagent 2678-B. An artificial enzyme used to break up protein coats. Sound familiar?"

Now she stopped. "What of it?" she asked in a bored voice.

"I reviewed your lab notes from Cataldi Pharmaceuticals. You used 2678-B to dissolve the adhesives that kept your cell capsules stuck to their cells. Well, Ivy, you've got it up the wazoo, flowing through your veins. Right now, that enzyme is dissolving all those cellular implants you've got inside of you. Once they're gone, the cells inside will be attacked by your own immune system. When the poison-producing cells are destroyed, they'll also release their chemical products into your bloodstream, while your antidote-producing ones won't be able to respond."

Ivy laughed harshly. "Very clever, Batman, but an enzyme like 2678-B must be injected to work—"

"—Not unless you coat them in a microemulsion layer. Like the one mixed in my lip gloss," he said, ostentatiously blowing her a kiss.

She was no longer amused. A contorted look of fury on her face, she said coldly: "You are way out of your league, Batman. I think you're up for a final round of pain." She was almost upon him when she suddenly stopped in mid-stride.

"Something wrong, Pamela?"

Beads of sweat started dripping down the sides of her head. "Nothing, it's nothing—" She then shuddered. Ivy took a few deep breaths, then shook her head. "This has happened before, it's merely an allergic—"

Stopping, she breathed in sharply, then clutched at her belly. Grunting, she looked up at Bruce in horror. "This can't be—"

Bruce said nothing. A look of pure hatred twisted her face. "You! I'll kill you!" She again moved towards him, but immediately she stopped again and began to scream.

"No, no man could have beaten me—AHHH!" Shrieking, she began clawing at her hands, neck, and face, drawing bright red streaks as she did so. Her body went into convulsions, and she fell to the ground, twisting and turning in agony. Blood started to pour from her nose, ears and eyes as she continued to writhe and scream. Finally, her body heaved convulsively in a mighty spasm, and abruptly stopped moving altogether.

A few feet away, Ivy was on the ground, her neck and back brutally arching backwards, as if she had been poisoned with strychnine. White bubbly foam poured out of her mouth, and her face was frozen in an expression of shock and horror. _I hope I didn't kill her,_ Bruce thought, and he actually meant it. That, after all, was what made him different from her—his choice of means towards a larger end. If he did kill her… that would be something he would have to engage in lengthy soul-searching over. Unlike the hundreds she's killed without a secondthought

But before that, the immediate problem remained. At last the pain had died down to the point where he only felt like he'd been in a car crash, instead of a torture chamber. But he was still paralyzed from the waist down. How much longer it would last he didn't know, but the longer it lasted the more likely someone would discover him.

_First things first. _With great difficulty he managed to get his mask back on, so at least anyone coming across them wouldn't know he was Bruce Wayne. Now, using his right arm, he slowly and painstakingly pulled himself across the floor to where she lay, until he was literally face-to-face with her. Poison Ivy still possessed her lovely features, but they were now marred by the blood and foam dripping everywhere, adding a most-unpleasant stench to the air as well. Panting, he reached over and began searching her nearby bag, looking for the antidote to the paralytic agent she had used before. Eventually he found it—at least, it looked the same: a small needle filled with a clear blue liquid.

Batman wondered: was this the same agent she used? Unfortunately Ivy was in no condition to help him. He hesitated for a while, until he realized the paralysis was creeping back up his chest again: her original antidote had worn off! Quickly he rolled over, pulled off the lower back plate of his suit, ripped the protective inner lining clear, then injected it into the base of his spine. Seconds past, and slowly but surely feeling came back to his legs. After a few test kicks, he was finally able to get to his feet. Quickly he went over to the bag and removed two stainless steel cylinders. Gathering some material, he created a bonfire pile and put the canisters on top of them before lighting the pile. Hopefully, the heat would kill the viruses within.

Ivy still laid there, frozen in apparent death. Batman took off his glove and gingerly placed his fingers at her throat. He felt a faint pulse, so apparently she was still alive. He rolled Ivy over and handcuffed her. After a moment's hesitation, he then bent down and lightly kissed her on the cheek.

The windows high above began to lighten with the break of dawn. Going outside, more weary than he had ever been in his entire life, he staggered clear of the jamming and radioed Alfred to come get him.

* * *

**End of Part II**


	28. Chapter 28

**Epilogue: Comes the Dark Knight  
Chapter 28**

* * *

_ A massive crush of media personnel crowded around the steps of the Gotham City State Courthouse, each jockeying for the best position possible. Old-timers told their younger colleagues they had never seen anything like it since the days of the Wayne murder. On the airwaves, in print and online, the attention of the city, the nation—perhaps even a large part of the world—had built up to this day, the opening day of criminal proceedings against Doctor Pamela Isley, the head of Green Dawn. Nicknamed "The Poison Lady" by the more salacious members of the press, it seemed no one could resist hearing more details about the sensational combination of beauty, brains—and brutality.  
_

_ Pretty and fragile-appearing she may have been, her eco-terror group had wreaked an incredible swath of violence on the City: hundreds dead, millions of dollars in property destroyed or poisoned. Her victims cut a wide swath through society: from nameless hobos whose decayed corpses might never be identified, to some of the greatest captains of industry and finance. Worst of all, she was but moments away from unleashing a devastating plague on Gotham, one that would might have left the city permanently uninhabitable, and even threatened the entire world. Despite all the efforts of city, state, and federal officials, they had been unable to stop her… but the Batman did.  
_

_ More than a few in the City had wondered whether the mysterious Dark Knight was involved in the ongoing terror, but once the police had informed the public that Isley had been apprehended by the efforts of the Batman, it created a groundswell of support and enthusiasm for him beyond anything that had existed before…_

* * *

Bruce Wayne would have been glad to acknowledge them—as soon as his aches went away. 

Back in the Pad, clothed in royal blue silk pajamas, Bruce sat in front of the TV, watching while he sipped at Alfred's latest creation, a seaweed and soybean shake. Physically he was no longer impaired—indeed, tomorrow he planned to be back on the prowl—but the aftermath of Ivy's chemical assaults on him still lingered on. Occasionally parts of his body would flare up as if on fire, but now he was almost used to it. _That on top of all the bruises, blows and gunshots I've endured, _he thought grimly. Bruce knew that no matter well-conditioned he was, these and future injuries would take their inevitable toll: if he was lucky, he would only be prematurely disabled ten or twenty years from now. If not… _I'll never stop fighting, though. Not as long as I can save someone from the _real_ pains of life…_

"How are we this morning, sir?" Alfred asked as he came up with another glass filled with grey-green liquid.

"Almost normal," Bruce responded. "Normal and I—we don't get along that well," he added dryly.

"I suppose not," Alfred said. Handing him the glass, he turned to watch the scene on the television. "Well, you've done your job, let's see if they can do theirs."

"I have all the confidence in Rachel and our public officials," Bruce said. He was certainly confident about Rachel, less so about the rest, but the fact that not only the state's Attorney General but also the Justice Department had agreed to allow Rachel to lead the prosecution was proof of her ability. _Justice will prevail… at least, this time._

Something was happening on the television: a scroll line now read, "Developing News: Potential Deal For Isley?" With a start Bruce raised the volume:

"—Associated Press has now reported the rumor we're hearing, can you confirm?"

"Yes, this is truly stunning news if true," a reporter said. "We didn't hear anything regarding a deal before this moment, they must have been negotiating with her attorneys ever since she was apprehended. Wait, they're coming out!"

On screen he saw Rachel, a thoroughly grim expression on her face. Isley's attorney was flanking her, looking like the cat that swallowed the proverbial canary. Coming up to a microphone, Rachel said tersely: "As you all now know, after a lengthy pretrial hearing Judge McKenna has found the defendant, Pamela Isley, incompetent to stand trial due to mental disability, and is now being remanded to Arkham Asylum for further treatment and investigation. The State has vigorously objected to this holding and we will be filing an appeal immediately. Her attorney wishes to make a statement." With a stare that would freeze fire, she glanced at Isley's attorney. Smiling, he walked up to the microphone.

"Thank you Ms. Dawes," he said unctuously. "Judge McKenna did the right thing in granting this motion. As I explained to the court, my client has suffered severe mental damage from noxious chemicals due to the gross negligence in upholding laboratory sanitary standards of her prior employer, Cataldi Pharmaceuticals. We are confident that a further examination will show that her exposure to noxious chemicals created the mental delusion that caused her to act so tragically in recent days."

_She's getting off!_ Bruce was frozen with shock and rage. Now there was a new banner running across the screen:

**_BREAKING NEWS: POISON LADY GETS OFF ON TECHNICALITY!_**

"Bugger," Alfred said tersely. Bruce's thoughts were considerably more voluminous, and unprintable. But all he said was: "How? What went wrong?"

"I don't know, sir. Perhaps you should contact Rachel?"

Bruce thought about it. "Not yet. When she's ready." He fell silent, still fuming. _I need to go out right now and dispense some indiscriminate justice…_

* * *

Rupert Thorne was blazing away with his prized original-issue Tommy Gun. He had bought it as a memento, never thinking he'd need to use it—he had an army of men to do the muscle work, had spent a lifetime rising to the point where he could take control of Gotham. 

Now, it was one bullet away from disappearing forever.

Thorne ducked to reload, just before a storm of bullets flew overhead. As his bodyguard laid down cover fire, he scooted across the wine-stained floor of his nightclub, then popped up and emptied a clip into a pair of gunmen, yelling a savage roar of glee as they crumpled beneath his fire. Ducking back down, he recognized one of the fallen men as an operative of the Maroni Family, one of Falcone's longtime allies. When the Roman went down they had come to him offering to join his operation, but Thorne had been so confident of his rise he had not exercised the typical precautions he normally did when taking on new partners. Given his hubris, perhaps it shouldn't have been a surprise that after the Batman had smashed his latest goods-distribution scheme, they decided to turn on him.

Another gunman raked the bar area with a heavy assault rifle. His bodyguard poked his head up to try and get another shot off, and got his head blown off for his troubles.

_Crap._ Thorne only had two other men left, while at least five gunmen held down the entrance. The floor was now completely coated with an unholy mixture of alcohol, blood and other bodily fluids from the fifteen corpses of both sides. Swearing, he reloaded the gun and backed into the entrance to the coat room. There was no way out from here, and his backup had not yet arrived.

The thought of going down guns blazing had a certain appeal, but honor and glory meant nothing when you were dead. He toyed with the idea of surrendering, but all that would get him would be to exchange a quick death for a slow, agonizing one. _Screw that!_

Outside, there was a screech as a car rapidly pulled up. Men in suits came pouring out with guns. To his great dismay, they didn't start shooting. _Their backup. Just great._

As they entered the club, guns out, they began talking and laughing with the other gunmen. Thorne sighed. _If Scarface can go out in style, so can I. _ He steeled himself for the inevitable rush, but had to close his eyes instead as the car outside blew up, then seconds later an explosion wracked the lobby, sending all nine of Maroni's men straight to hell.

With no further shooting, Thorne and his two guys got up and gingerly made their way to the mangled entrance. Another car pulled up, along with a welcome sight: Tony, his right-hand man, quite a sight in his fedora, grey suit, Cuban cigar and grenade launcher in hand.

"Sorry for the delay, Mister Thorne. We had some trouble downtown. Lukovic came by and tried to make a new offer. Shame he won't be able to accept our proposal."

"I think we need to buy out a whole bunch of bastards, soon." He looked down at the charred corpse of the gunmen who had killed his bodyguard and spat on him. "Let's go."

Crowding into the sedan, they sped off. Thorne ordered his man to turn on the news, which was yammering about 'gangland murders' taking place all across Gotham.

"They're hitting us everywhere," Tony said with a tinge of anger. "We're giving back as good as we're getting, but it's costing us."

"Maybe Alberto's not as dumb as he looks," Thorne said morosely. Actually, after a moment's notice he realized it couldn't just be the Falcones rallying their forces. No, the real reason was obvious: he had concentrated too much effort, too many resources in bringing down the Batman. By doing so, and failing, he made himself look weak, and the other Families had decided to they'd rather be their own bosses, instead of knuckling back under Falcone or joining his 'enlightened' crusade to bring Gotham back under the Families' thumb.

"Fools," he spat quietly. An unpleasant sense of worry now filled him. This looked like the beginning of an all-out war between the various groups of the Gotham underworld. Without a clear Number One, everyone else was now jockeying for position. That in itself was nothing unusual, but the problem now was that the rules of the game had changed. Thorne's worst fear was that all of them would be destroyed by a divide-and-conquer game played by the police. In the past, they could subvert the civil authorities to prevent the cops from doing that, but with Batman in their quiver they might be able to pull it off. _Could they eliminate guys like us completely?_ It seemed impossible, even undesirable from a 'good' perspective: who knew what kind of crazy actors would fill the void if they weren't around to provide those forbidden pleasures people wanted so much? _Better the devil you know, after all…_

"Damn you, Batman," Thorne swore again. If there was no way to stop the coming mob war of all-against-all, all he could do now was buckle down and try to survive. It would be dicey, but he was willing to bet he—or at least, others like him—would prevail.

* * *

_**so funny!**_  
**_yes like that!_**  
_**BOOM!  
oh bet that didn't  
taste  
good!  
what do you mean no more gags?  
NONONONONONONONONONONONONONONO!  
need more damnit  
things are getting boring again!**_  
**_oh well if you wanna smile you_**  
_**gotta do it yourself!**_  
**_this punchline is so funny_**  
_**you'll die  
laughing!**_  
**_ha?  
HaHa!  
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!_**

* * *

"Please, come in." 

"Thanks." Rachel stepped inside, still-dressed in her work clothes. Alfred had picked her up from a pre-arranged location downtown, the best way to avoid the occasional reporter who still wanted to ask questions about the whole Isley fiasco and its aftermath. In addition, with his own public profile back on the rise, being seen in her company would create… complications.

Following Bruce's lead, they went over to the small dining table and sat down. Pouring two glass of sparkling cider, Bruce handed one to Rachel, then raised it. "To your good health."

"And yours." They drank. She smiled. "Still the playboy teetotaler?"

"Gotta keep a clear head out there," Bruce responded. "It's a dangerous world."

"At least the danger for you is in front of you," she said evenly. "Where you can see it."

"Not always, but yeah." The words were trite, but nothing he could say would be adequate consolation for what had happened to her. Rachel had made enormous sacrifices, personal and professional, choosing to work an assistant district attorney in crime-infested Gotham City. Being made acting DA after her boss had been killed was not only a great opportunity for her, but would have made an enormous difference in helping clean up Gotham. Instead, for reasons he still couldn't believe (understand yes, believe no), the process of justice had been sabotaged and Isley had gotten off virtually scot-free. _Just when I'd begun to forgive the System for their screwup with Chill, this happens!_

Fortunately, she saved him the trouble of breaking the uncomfortable silence. "It's not all that a big loss. Believe me, better to leave on your own terms."

Angrily Bruce asked: "Would they really have fired you?"

"Probably. We kept it out of the press, but lots of people in City Hall, and the FBI were very unhappy that… that I leaked the information about Isley to you." _She really meant: that I attacked City Hall and made them look ineffectual._ She sighed. "Botching the prosecution of Isley was just icing on the cake."

"You didn't botch it; they sabotaged it, somehow."

Rachel tried to force a smile. Perhaps knowing how forced it was, instead she began speaking in a cold analytical lawyer tone of voice: "We didn't know about the competency defense, but still there's no way that Judge McKenna should have granted summary judgment like that. Someone must have pressured her."

"I thought she was incorruptible."

"So did I. I mean, after Faden, she was the perfect replacement."

Bruce paused to think. "You took all the precautions, yes?"

"Trust me, I was with Isley during the grand jury. I felt no inarticulate desire to please Isley. We scooped out every implant on her skin that we could find, and ran a complete set of chemical tests. She was clean. There was no way for her to influence any of us, male or female."

"I only ask because…" He hesitated; it was only a hypothesis, but its likelihood was increasing rapidly.

"What?"

"I'm pretty sure this is not common knowledge, but I've heard rumors from people here and there… about the way Judge McKenna… swings."

Her eyes widened. "Shame on you, Bruce!

He held his arms up apologetically. "Hey, I'm only saying what I've heard! Seriously, I only mentioned it because I was worried that, if it were true, it might make her more susceptible to any suggestive abilities Isley may have. But maybe I was outthinking myself. Maybe they just bribed her. Or threatened her."

Bruce's words left a bitter silence. "You think a judge like McKenna would seriously buckle under to something like that? And that people in our own government would do such a thing?"

"Don't know about the former, but I wouldn't bet against the latter." Bruce normally hid his cynical side very well, but he felt comfortable being honest around Rachel. _Perhaps too comfortable?_ She didn't respond, so they went back to their meal.

"Don't worry, she may not be tried just yet, but she's not going anywhere in Arkham," Rachel finally said.

Bruce nodded, deciding to change the subject. "Rachel, I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For pulling you in. I have to do what I have to do, but you have your duty as well, and by helping you… I've cost you so much." Having finally confessed his nagging guilt, Bruce… still felt guilty.

Rachel put down her fork. "Sometimes, in order to do what's right, you have to do things that you normally shouldn't do."

"Maybe," Bruce interjected, "but it's different with the law—"

"—It is," Rachel interrupted back, "but in this case, I'm glad—no, I'm _proud_—I did the right thing, helping you. Like you, I always try do the right thing. You don't have to feel sorry for me."

Bruce felt like shriveling up under the table. Perhaps sensing it, now Rachel smiled warmly. "I didn't mean to be so harsh. Trust me, it's all for the best. Too much politics in the District Attorney's office. I'm happy just being a prosecutor again—I'm pretty sure they'll take me back."

Her uncertainty worried him, but Bruce didn't bring it up. "So, what will they do now?"

"The governor may appoint someone soon, but I wouldn't bet on it. I've heard a few other names: James from D.C., Dent in Chicago, maybe Ivanez from St. Louis. Too early to tell."

"Let's hope they're half as good as their predecessor." Laughing, they finished their dinner, the conversation never drifting back to the recent unpleasantries. Instead, their conversations, as they did so often in the past, drifted backwards and forwards in time, hopping to different subjects here and there.

* * *

Later, they sat near the window and watched as night fell and Gotham came to its second life. For Bruce, every night the pattern of lights and movement evoked a different feeling. Sometimes, it was almost peaceful; other times, it was chaotic. Tonight felt chaotic—in a good way. Instead of showing its hidden evilness, tonight the City was giving out almost a seductive vibe. 

"Pretty, isn't it?" Rachel said. Bruce made a small hum of agreement. "Well, I better get going."

"Okay. Alfred will take you home."

"Alfred?"

"It's best that way."

For a second Rachel seemed to stare at him. Then she said: "You're right." As she gathered her things and headed towards the door, Bruce hung back, following a few feet behind. As Alfred exited the Pad and headed downstairs, Rachel was standing at the door.

"Take care, Bruce."

"You, too, Rachel." She reached up to kiss him on the cheek, and he responded in kind.

"Good night."

"Good night."

Bruce went to bad not long after Rachel left, but he couldn't sleep. He felt anxious, restless, almost agitated. Willing himself, he eventually drifted off into sleep.

Sometime later, he awoke again, that strange unsatisfied feeling still loose within. Grumpy, he got up and went out into the living room of the Pad. Again the bright lights of Gotham at night greeted his vision. Again he looked out, losing himself in those lights, whose constant yet minutely varying pattern always evoked some unique affect within himself. Usually he could describe it, but sometimes it escaped verbalization. Sometimes it would almost represent itself in sounds. Other times in images—

—_and just like that, a vision of Ivy at her height flashed before him._

It was enough to make him lose his footing; stumbling, he shook his head violently. _I've still got Ivy on my mind. _Bruce had tried very hard to put her out of his mind—not his objective memories of the long and treacherous experience, but those _feelings_ Ivy had falsely evoked with her chemical witchery. Lucius had given him not long ago a clean bill of health—he was free of all her toxins. But still the memory lingered…

…_Stockings and skirt…open blouse… green gloves… green eyes… hair aflame…_

Poison Ivy was quite the character, although he'd be glad if he never encountered one like her again. _Or do I?_

A dark spark still seemed to be loose within him. It gave him trepidation to explore it, but Bruce knew that fear was simply a reaction to the unknown: no matter how terrible or how disturbing it may be, one need not ever be fear the truth.

So Bruce explored. And he found himself weighing Ivy on one hand… and Rachel on the other. _All right, they're both women, nothing to be worried about. _All the ways you could compare two women flowed through his head. Ivy won many battles, but Rachel won the ones that counted. _What good is beauty or brains, when tied to a heart devoid of compassion?_ Gorgeous and intelligent Ivy may be, Bruce chuckled, homicidal maniacs were not his type.

Still… the fact that she was so wild and out of control and free… appealed to part of him—to his own dark side. _To the Batman._ Oh sure, neither Batman nor Bruce Wayne would ever accept someone willing to kill, no matter how noble the cause, but surely there must be… other women… maybe not as beautiful and smart as Ivy… but more aggressive and free-spirited than Rachel? Would someone like that be a better fit for a man like himself?

The answer was a definite maybe.

Bruce sighed. _Let's not get into _that _subject again!_ His feelings about Rachel were—always would be—complicated. And as long as he was Batman, he would not—could not—bring her in fully. _So what do I until then? _Chances were, not too many ladies in the world were really Batwoman on the inside, waiting to be born. _But maybe there's one or two? _It would make for some interesting possibilities, to be sure.

_Who knows, maybe Ivy will one day reform herself!_ As soon as he thought it he quashed the idea. _If I ever see her again, it's because she's a menace on the loose once more._ No matter what had happened in that court, Bruce still did not want her to be executed for her crimes. If that happened, then there was always the possibility she could get away, a prospect that made Bruce shudder. _They stripped her of her powers, but all Isley needs is access to a lab, and Poison Ivy would be reborn._

But beyond all that, it was Isley's damaged psyche that would forever separate her from him. _Such a shame, _Bruce thought sadly. _We're so alike—devoted to a cause greater than ourselves—but our methods are completely different. And that matters, more even than the ends themselves._ If ever Batman were tempted to go beyond what he had limited himself to, it would be time to hang up the cape.

_Fortunately, that will never happen._ The ease and confidence with which he thought that reassured him. Yawning, he went back to bed, sleeping more soundly than he could ever remember.

* * *

The next morning, reluctantly back at work at his day job, there was still one thing that was nagging away at the back of his mind. Sitting behind his desk, it quickly became clear to him. 

"Nancy, will you come in here please? I need you for a second." At his desk, Bruce took out a piece of paper and began jotting down ideas for the memorandum he planned to send out to everyone at Wayne Enterprises regarding ways to make the corporation be more environmentally-friendly.

* * *

Even in the middle of the night, Arkham Asylum seemed to suck all the warmth and life from its surroundings. Agent Moritz felt a little bit of unease, but reassured himself with the knowledge that everything happening tonight had been planned down to the letter. From the strong-arming of city officials, to assisting the defense attorney with an insanity defense by getting the necessary evidence, to the threat to expose Judge McKenna's background and current choice of partners among Gotham City's elite, all of the Agency's actions had brought about the desired state of affairs. _Tonight should just be a formality… but everyone knows the last out is always the hardest to get. _

He walked in step with Agent Jones, flanked by two lean and mean agents from the Agency who were dressed in suits like they were. One of them carried a large bag filled with hypodermic needles and chemicals of various types—and some cruder, sharper tools as well. _In case she decides to be non-cooperative. _But Doctor Strange had assured them that Isley had not only been a most docile 'patient', but that no sign of unusual chemical excretions from Isley had been detected.

"Is everything ready?" Jones asked the lone guard who came out to the rear entrance to meet them.

"All clear, sir. Everything has been set up as planned."

"Good. Wait for us here with the truck."

"Yes, sir." The guard opened the door, and they went inside. Taking the elevator, they descended into the special isolation wing and made their way down the dark corridor. This was where the most dangerous inmates were housed; normally a female patient would not be located here, but there was no reason not to take precautions with someone as deadly as Isley had proved to be.

"I really think she'll go along," Jones said casually as they approached her cell.

"Surely she'll realize we can't persuade her too much here at Arkham," Mortiz responded. "It'll wake the others up, make a scene, leave too many witnesses."

"Trust me, after spending a few weeks here, she knows what happens to female prisoners who don't go along to get along," Jones said, waggling his eyebrows. "We make a deal: her knowledge for her life. No one can turn down that offer."

"I agree," Mortiz added, "I just want this to go smoothly. Still don't want to knock her out?"

"We couldn't arrange her cell or food to be tampered with in time. If we need to, we've got the stuff here," Jones said, pointing to the bag.

"You're right," Moritz conceded. They were now outside her cell.

"Let's do it to it," Jones said brightly. Taking out the keys the guard gave him, he unlocked the cell and stepped inside. Moritz followed.

The isolation chamber was relatively spacious for one person, about twenty feet square. There were no windows, and only a single bulb weakly illuminating the ceiling. On a cot at the end of the room sat their erstwhile spy and actual target, Pamela Isley. She wore an orange jumpsuit, her hair tied in a ponytail, and wire-framed glasses perched at the end of her long nose. She was still stunningly attractive, although her arms and hands were covered with patch bandages covering the excisions the police doctors had performed on her poison-producing glands.

"Well, well, I was wondering when you'd show up," Isley said sarcastically. "You do know visiting hours are from 10-6, Monday through Friday, right?"

"Charming as always," Jones said. "I must admit, you really had us fooled, didn't you?"

"Everything would have worked out just fine if you had been competent enough to kill Batman," she sneered. "But lucky for you and all the other cogs in the Machine, your men couldn't shoot straight."

"Funny girl," Jones said softly. "You've got a lot of attitude for a resident of Arkham. Way I hear it, most uppity girls who end up here do everything they can to off themselves after the guards break them in."

"You're right, I've seen it," she said brightly. "But I've been treated with kid gloves ever since coming here, even though I have no way to make sure I get it." She held up her bandaged hands. "I know you want my knowledge, that's why you coerced the judge to declare me legally incompetent, why you let me stew for a while so I understand what happens if I don't comply."

"I didn't know we failed to take away your mind-reading powers, Isley," Mortiz replied evenly.

Isley smiled. "I have nothing of the kind. It was merely simple deduction."

Jones' smile disappeared. "Okay, if you're so smart, you know what the deal is. We're very interested in your talents, Isley. Let us in on the secret, and instead of being every prison guard's bitch for the rest of your life, you get to live in minimum-security and do what you like to do best. Oh, by the way, you're coming with us tonight anyway, so it's even simpler: go along, or end up in a place that makes Arkham look like the Hilton International. Your call."

Isley cocked her head to one side. "Hmm. I'll accept your deal on one condition: kill the Batman for me."

Moritz snorted. "Trust us, Isley, Batman is the least of your concerns."

"Are you declining my request?" she said chillily. "Very well; I will be gracious and offer something else to you: not only will I work for you, I will spare all your lives." Isley blinked seductively. "It's a very generous addition to my offer, I sincerely hope you take it."

"Enough games," Jones grunted. "You're coming with us, but first we're going to teach you a little respect." He took out a dart gun from the bag and pointed it at her. "Recognize this? A little taste of your own medicine. One shot of this, and you won't even be able to scream as my associates do their thing," he said, gesturing at the two interrogation specialists they brought along.

"Okay, one last chance—you can forget this whole conversation ever happened and walk out that door," she said, her voice eerily cheery. "Or you'll never walk out of here again. You've got 30 seconds. 29…28…"

Jones turned to the other two and said: "Boys, don't be gentle. Have fun, Pamela," he said contemptuously as he raised his pistol and fired.

_Thwack! _The curare-laden dart slammed into her chest, embedding itself in her flesh. Pamela flinched, then looked down at the dart in curiosity. Raising her head, she said: "Ouch?"

"What the hell?"

Pamela smiled and slowly stood up. "I forgot to tell you something, but first, let's all get comfortable." She turned around and picked up a cup of water on the table next to the bed. Sipping it, she then abruptly threw it to the floor. The water splashed at their feet, and seconds later Moritz felt a sudden dizziness, followed rapidly by loss of sensation in his legs.

_No!_ Moritz desperately reached for his gun, but it was too late: he was falling to the ground, and landed with a sickening crunch as the bones in his right hand and wrist shattered, sending agonizing waves of pain. As he writhed on the cold hard floor, he was able to move very slightly, so he desperately tried to get his gun with his left hand. Before he did so, however, Pamela had kicked the gun away from him. She did so with the others as well, then sat down next to Jones.

"The Batman might have taken away most of my implants, but evolution is always working for Mother Nature," she said conversationally. "Apparently some of the coats had minute imperfections which made them resistant to the action of 2678-B. So while I may only have a small fraction of the original cells left, I have enough to do this." She scratched Jones' neck, which instantly made him began to twitch and scream. "Or this," she said, scratching the others as well. When she came to Moritz, he almost whimpered in fear. "I may even have a little of this," she said as she scratched him. Instantly his body seemed to be on fire, filling him with unimaginable pain. He screamed involuntarily, flailing and twisting in agony.

Isley laid down so that she could face Moritz, a gentle smile on her face. "I'm sure you're wondering, there's no way Isley can kill us, it would only incriminate her." She smiled again. "That's true, but I've been busy here at Arkham. In fact, I've made a couple of friends, who should be here any minute now."

As if on cue, the door flung open and three guards walked in, including the one Jones talked to. "These men broke in and attempted to assault me," Isley said to them. "Dispose of them."

Moritz was horrified—but could do little more than gurgle in response. Somehow, Jones was able to muster enough to strength to say: "Go…to…hell, Isley…"

"You'll all be there before me," she said cheerily. "Toodles!"

There was a gunshot, then another, and another. Moritz did everything he could to move his legs, and was able to kick slightly when a bang louder than any he had ever heard slammed into his head, instantly followed by more pain, then red-streaked darkness.

The last thing he ever saw was an awful smile on Isley's face…

* * *

When Moritz's body stopped its post-death twitching, Pamela Isley got up and looked at her erstwhile rescuers: all of them had a dull, happy expression on their face. Beaming, she went up to them all and patted them on the cheeks. "Thanks, boys! You did a great job!" Suddenly her eyes widened and she put her hands to her cheek, mouth opened in shock. "What's that, George thinks Albert is going to kill him so he can have me all to himself? And Lewis will help him?" Her words instantly caused the men to look at each other with suspicion. 

"What?"

"You ain't taking her away from me!"

"You double-crossing bastard!"

Isley added with a flourish, "No need to fight over me." The words triggered all-out war as the three men, mere feet apart from each other, began fighting and shooting one another. Within a minute, all of them were dead or dying on the floor. A few more minutes past before more security guards arrived. They seemed utterly shocked at the carnage.

"These feds came here and threatened to kill me," Isley said in a panicky voice. "The guards came and rescued me, then they started arguing with each other, then they shot each other."

The guards seemed dubious, but didn't say anything. "Better contact Doctor Strange," one of them muttered. The others began dragging the bodies outside. After an hour of frenzied activity, all the blood on the floor had been mopped up and the bodies cleared away.

Alone again at last, Pamela went back to what she had spent most of her time doing since arriving here: trying to remember what happened that night and how Batman beat her. The last thing she remembered clearly was Batman striking her across the face; the next thing after that was waking up in a pool of her own blood bound and shackled, her precious smallpox samples sterilized, and the police coming to haul her away. Somehow, the Batman had learned her deepest secrets and managed to inject her with 2678-B, which eliminated the adhesion between the cells and their protective capsules. Without them, her immunity system instantly began destroying them, which caused toxic byproducts to fill her body while the antidote cells could not respond. She was fortunate that the only real damage was to her short-term memory: among other things, a massive amount of her memory-erasing solution had flooded her system, and chances were she would never be able to recover her memory of that moment.

_Batman._ The very name filled her with cold fury, which helped mask her embarrassment at the fact that a mere man dressed as a bat had somehow managed to defeat her—and perhaps not by physical force, but maybe even by outwitting her. Poison Ivy—master of poisons, immune to them all—had been poisoned herself. _How galling!_

Frustrated, Pamela lied back in her cot and stared at the ceiling. It had taken her some time to create enough paralysis drugs to carry out tonight's ambush, and even if she managed to escape, it was much more likely that Batman or the authorities would track her down more quickly this time. Reluctantly, she concluded the best response would be to stay in Arkham, continue feigning mental illness, then wait for a more opportune time to escape, and hopefully find more allies along the way.

_Patience, patience. _She may have failed to stop the Machine this time, but the time of crisis was fast approaching. No doubt others would become more receptive when the air they breathed and the water they drank would no longer support life. _People like Bruce Wayne. _Assuming he really meant it when he wanted to help save the environment, a man of his resources would be very useful, especially now. Then she grinned: _ fools like him will not realize until it's too late that my real objective is bringing about the final solution to the human problem, once and for all!_

Isley could definitely use more fools like Wayne; no matter how wealthy he was, the fact she had so easily manipulated him confirmed the fact that humanity's self-destruction was inevitable; all she needed to do was to wait until events gave her an opportunity.

"And what about Batman?" she said uncharacteristically aloud to herself. For him there was no ambiguity in her thoughts; he may have beaten her this time, but the next time she would show no mercy, no hesitation. Already she thought of modifications, lines of research to follow, which would give her the edge. And when she had the Batman in her claws, he would die the most painful death science could grant him.

"Oh yes, Mister Batman," Isley said in a deadly whisper. "Your time is coming. It's coming real soon."


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

* * *

Lieutenant James Gordon took in the midnight vista of Gotham City from the top of City Hall, the endless sea of towers and lights stretching out in every direction. The warm spring night and the stiff breeze combined to make for a very pleasant experience, as the normal stench of the streets was all but nonexistent here. The distant indistinct sounds of city life seeped up from below—the constant rumble of traffic, muffled by the hum of the building's electrical systems around him, while far above the occasional thunder of air traffic trickled down. He looked down at his watch. _He's late._

Leaning forward, he squinted: a flashing series of lights was snaking through the dark alleys before, and the familiar wail of a siren came into focus. An involuntary shudder passed through him; without thought, Gordon took out a cigarette and lit it. _Need to cut back, Jimbo,_ his mind chided him as he inhaled. He didn't feel any more relaxed as he exhaled. Even as the horrors of recent days faded quickly into memory, Gordon found himself unable to shake an ineffable sense of unease. He sighed. _Only yesterday it seemed things were finally turning around. Now…_

…Now, he didn't know what to think. On the surface, things were more or less back to normal. Sure, crime was on the upswing, but that _was _normal for Gotham. There was no one thing that stood out as an immediate problem, but in a way that was the issue: instead of making progress, as it looked like it could happen for a few shining weeks after the Arkham attack, everything seemed settling back into that inexorable state of decay. Now, the future never seemed so uncertain, and a recent editorial in the paper had managed to crystallize the issue that weighed in his mind and, he was sure, the minds of many others: What Next?

From the corner of his eye, he saw darkness moving across darkness. It quickly took an ominous yet familiar shape. _Perhaps I'll find out._ Minutes later, the darkness gracefully circled above, slowing down till it fell with a solid thud twenty feet away. Gordon took one last drag and put it out with his shoe, turning to face him, a calm expectation filling him.

"Sorry I'm late," the familiar, raspy voice said from beneath his dark mask, the hint of a smile on his face.

"Better late than never." _I have got to learn how to joke better!_

Fortunately, the Batman was all business. "Any more loose ends?" he asked.

Gordon thought for a moment. "Isley's still in Arkham, so I guess we should be thankful for small favors." If the Batman was angry about how justice was thwarted, he didn't show it. "There are rumors the Feds tried to take her away a week ago, but far as I know she's still there. Doctor Strange has the place locked down tighter than the seals of your suit," he said in another lame attempt to make a joke. The Batman did not smile. Grimacing, he continued: "No one wants to talk about it anymore, 'gotta move on', and all that—"

"—No one wanted a trial, that's why they sabotaged it," Batman said bluntly. He paused in reaction to Gordon's look of puzzlement. "Think about it, Lieutenant—the Feds either fell for Ivy's subterfuge, or tried to recruit her for their own purposes, maybe get access to her scientific knowledge. They hoped to snatch her away once the public attention was no longer hot, but somehow city officials sabotaged it, because the last thing the Mayor and company want is for a public trial to reveal how ineffectual they were. As long as Ivy's locked away in Arkham, the Feds can't use her against them." The Batman smiled—not a pleasant sight. "Lucky us. Or me."

Something about Batman's argument didn't quite ring true, but overall it was as good a theory as any. "Then, no wonder they tried to sell it that Green Dawn was fronting for you—that way, the Feds could take her away and let you take the blame for Green Dawn." He tapped the roof with his foot. "Some guys—well, okay, lots—wondered about you after your business downstairs. But you're on the level again," he said with a wink.

Batman nodded. "Then I owe you one. Thanks."

Gordon shook his head. "Was _anyone_ in the City or the Feds trying to stop Green Dawn?" He sighed. "All those lives lost, because of bureaucratic infighting. It's enough to make me want to put on the suit and break some heads."

"It isn't as easy as it looks," the Batman said dryly.

"I suppose not," Gordon said. He turned away, looking morosely back at the lights below. "Hell, she may have escaped trial, but if what you said is true, everyone also has an incentive to shut Isley up permanently. I won't be surprised if she's 'killed while trying to escape' before the Fourth of July."

"I hope not," Batman said. "Eventually Poison Ivy must receive justice, but lynching her wouldn't be it."

"I'm… surprised to hear you say that," Gordon said, and he was. _Why does he call Isley, 'Poison Ivy'? And—_

"I don't kill," Batman said bluntly. "I also don't approve of others doing it, either, even in the name of justice."

"Sometimes, it's necessary," Gordon said distantly, as the faces of those he had killed in the line of duty flashed before his eyes. Blinking, he quickly said: "I understand what you're saying, but I wish there was a trial, at least we could start to get some answers about Green Dawn, their link with the Arkham attackers—"

"—I can answer that for you: there's no link between Ivy and the League of Shadows."

_Oh really? And how do you know that? _Gordon turned to face the Batman, whose expression was unreadable. "Well, that answers one question," he said, waiting.

The Batman nodded. "And leads to another: how did I know that?"

"I'm listening."

For a while Batman just stared at him. Then, suddenly, he sighed and seemed to slump. The effect was uncanny: for a moment, he no longer seemed like a superhuman demigod with superhuman abilities. Now, although his face was still hidden and the contours of his body unchanged, he looked like nothing but an ordinary man in a suit.

"You've gone farther than anyone, putting your career, even your life, on the line in trusting me," the Batman said softly. His voice was different: no longer gruff and laconic, there was a surprising eloquence to it. "Without you, we couldn't have stopped the League of Shadows—the group that tried to poison Gotham's water supply—nor could we have stopped Green Dawn."

"Trust me, you deserve more of the credit than I do," Gordon replied.

"I do trust you, but that's easy. You don't know me, after all."

"That problem has crossed my mind on more than one occasion," Gordon said wryly. "If you did tell me, I promise—"

"—No," Batman interjected, his voice suddenly hard again. "My identity must remain secret. But I must tell you more, because there are questions in your mind. Coincidences that must be explained." He paused for emphasis. "Trust that must be reforged."

Gordon nodded, trying to keep the thrilling sense of discovery at bay. Summarizing months of speculation and questioning, he said: "You show up out of nowhere, and with your amazing ninja-like skills take down Boss Falcone and Judge Faden, just like that. And then, a few weeks later, a group of whackos shows up and almost carries out the worst act of terrorism in history." The Batman said nothing, which he took as a sign that he was on the right track. He continued: "You stopped them, but it was more than that; you weren't fazed by what was happening, when everyone else didn't have a clue. You had a way to counter their fear drug, you knew how to stop their plan."

Now the Batman nodded. "Almost as if I knew what they were going to do before it happened. And how could I have known that?"

_Time to lay the cards on the table. If it's the wrong answer, one of us may not be walking out of here alive. _"Were you a member of their group? This 'League of Shadows'?"

For the longest time he didn't answer. Finally he said: "Yes. I was."

"I see." _Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all…_

The Batman held his hands up, almost as if he were pleading. "I can't say anything about myself, but I am a real person underneath this mask. A real person, but not a normal person, because obviously a normal person doesn't decide to become the Dark Knight." He smiled, and this time it was charming instead of chilling. "All I can say is, for most of my life I had a…a need, to stop injustice. A need which goes beyond the ordinary things a person can do. I traveled the world, looking in every corner, in the shadows and dark places, searching for something—anything—that would make it possible to do what I so desperately needed to do."

"Okay." It was all he could say. "And you found this, this League of Shadows?"

"I did, or perhaps they found me. One does not join a group like the League on a whim. Perhaps we found each other. In any case, they trained me: to fight, to hide, to use fear as a weapon."

"And who were these enemies you were planning to fight?"

"All those who perpetuate injustice," Batman said dreamily, almost as if by rote. "I did not realize until the last moment, that they believed modern society itself was the source of all injustice in today's world, that to destroy injustice it would be necessary to destroy society." He paused, taking in Gordon's stunned look. "As the final test before I became part of their group, they asked me to kill a criminal they had captured. I refused, and in the attempt to escape I destroyed their headquarters… and thought I had killed their leader."

Now Gordon was indignant—or was it terrified? "I thought you said you didn't kill!"

"I didn't do it intentionally," the Batman said apologetically. "All I wanted to do was escape." Gordon glared at him, but said nothing. He continued: "So I return to Gotham. As part of the lessons I learned from the League, I decided I would fight my war against criminality under the guise of something else." He suddenly spread his arms and cape and began flapping, a comic imitation of a bat which caused a giggle to escape Gordon. "But I didn't realize that the League was still intact, that their leader was someone else, that they decided to carry out their plans to destroy Gotham."

"Did you know about their plan?" _If you say no, I don't think I'd believe you._

The Batman was silent again. "I knew that Gotham was on their list of potential targets for attack, but I did not know what their plan was. I originally wanted to stop Falcone, because I knew he was a top criminal figure here, but I did not know that one of his associates, Doctor Crane, was actually working for the League." The Batman smiled again. "Your partner, Flass, actually put me on the trail that led to the League."

Gordon rubbed his temples; it was so much to take in. _Is he telling the truth? _"So let me get this straight, you wanted to become a vigilante, and decided to go looking for a group that would help you do it. You found one, only it was actually a doomsday cult, which you thought you destroyed when you escaped. Only you didn't, and as you began your new crusade against crime, they followed you here to carry out their attack. Did I leave anything out?"

"I never wanted to be a vigilante," he said mildly. "I only wanted to bring about justice."

Gordon responded acidly: "I suppose a career in law enforcement was out of the question?"

"Let's just say that for me, sometimes the wheels of justice roll a little too slowly."

Gordon glared at him. "Is that supposed to be a joke?"

"No, merely an opinion." For a moment Gordon was possessed by a desire to strike the Batman, but he realized it would not solve his dilemma. He carefully considered his next words, for they could destroy their partnership.

"Look, Batman, whoever you are—that's not important. I know you have your reasons, and I respect that. I also realize," he said with a crooked grin of his own, "that sometimes you have to bend the rules to get things done. Lord knows how many times I've had to do it. And for now, I'll agree with the idea that sometimes you have to break them, in order to achieve a larger goal. It's not right, but what's right in this town?" He paused to take a deep breath. "But you remember my little speech about escalation, right?"

"Never forgot it."

"You say Isley wasn't part of the League of Shadows, right?"

"She was never at any of the meetings I was at," Batman said, chuckling.

"This isn't funny," Gordon said, trying not to laugh himself. "Okay, but don't you see? First you, then her. Who knows what kind of influence you might have had in spurring her on, at least unconsciously?"

Batman thought about it for a while. "Impossible to say."

"No kidding," he responded automatically. Before he could rant any further, the Batman interrupted.

"I've observed Ivy up close and in action," he said. "Ideologues and extremists are often brilliant, unbalanced individuals. I very much doubt I was the reason she began her terror campaign. Maybe someone asked her to join them, or maybe she finally got angry about some environmental outrage and decided that was the last straw. Hell, maybe someone slapped her on the butt and set her off." He shrugged. "She had the knowledge to do what she did for a long time, it was only a question of motive, circumstance and timing. The only way we'll learn why she did it all is if she tells us. But I wouldn't hold my breath."

Gordon was forced to concede that Batman's answer was a good one. But instead of saying so, he continued with his original point: "Whatever goaded Isley, or Ivy/Green Dawn/whatever on, isn't the issue. The question is the future: who knows how many other warped minds are out there, thinking the same way? How many of them might be inspired by your acts to act extremely themselves? I'm not sure exchanging mobsters with costumed freaks is a good deal."

Batman said: "Good question. Well, if you think I'm doing more harm than good, just say so, and I'll hang up my cape."

Even before Batman spoke, Gordon knew how he would answer a statement like that. The Batman was incredibly useful, even though his actions were technically illegal, and from the beginning Gordon had no illusions about what he was agreeing to. _Am I willing to get my hands dirty, to achieve a good end? _He decided he was.

Clearing his throat, Gordon said: "No, you don't have to do that. But surely you see how it could be an issue?"

"I see it, I just don't think it will happen. Crime is a tough enough business without putting on a show. For most of them, it's just about the money. Whatever happens, we can handle it, I promise you."

"Very well," Gordon said reluctantly. "But there is one last thing we have to resolve."

"What is it?"

Gordon took a deep breath, and said: "We're partners, and I trust you, but I'm sure you realize that I am taking a big leap of faith with you." Batman nodded silently. "So as long as you stay within the limits you uphold for yourself, we're good. But if you ever cross that line, then I will have no choice but to bring you down."

"I would expect nothing less."

Gordon thought he might have objected at the implied lack of trust, but in retrospect he shouldn't have. _We both have a license to trust each other, but it's not absolute, for either of us. _

Gordon was a man who expected other men to live up to their word, and as long as Batman did so, that was that. Nodding, he held out his hand. Batman took it, and the two men shook, hard.

"Partners," Gordon said.

"And maybe friends," Batman replied.

Gordon raised an eyebrow. "Am I really your friend?"

"I'd trust my life with you."

"But not your name." Gordon smiled.

Batman smiled back. "Someday, Lieutenant. When the time is right."

"Alright then, get some sleep, you know as well as I do the bad guys are feeling their britches lately."

"They'll be sorry soon enough, We'll see to it."

"No doubt."

Batman backed away. "Good night, Lieutenant Gordon." He then jumped off the building, disappearing into the night.

* * *

Exiting City Hall and making his way home, Gordon tried to digest everything he had learned that night. Perhaps it shouldn't have been a surprise that the Batman was not a Boy Scout, but a recovering terrorist? That had been a hard pill to swallow. And he knew for a fact that the Batman had hid more than just his name. _There's one other thing, some secret he's holding back, I'm sure._ Perhaps he'd ask DA—or now just, Attorney—Dawes, for her insights some day.

For the first time, Gordon felt pity for the mysterious stranger. _What could possibly have made him do this?_ _Would he ever be able to have a normal life?_ Even in a messed-up place like Gotham, plenty of people still could eek out a happy life or so. A chilly premonition filled him: the Batman's life did not start out happily, and probably would end in the same way. _But that's his choice._

Aside from the mystery of Batman himself (one which Gordon was willing to let go), the biggest question was for the future. He still wasn't convinced by the Batman's response, and he continued to wonder: would other criminals follow Isley's path, and elevate their criminality in response to the Batman's actions? Would they even be able to stop the crime wave now raging? Maybe not, but like his mysterious masked partner, Gordon would go down fighting before admitting defeat.

"I'm doing this for both of you," he said softly to his sleeping daughter and wife as he entered his house, got changed and went to bed. "For all the innocent in Gotham. I'll be there." _And so will the Batman,_ he thought dreamily as he dozed off into sleep.

* * *

**The End**


	30. Afterthoughts

**Afterthoughts on _Green Dawn_**

First, thanks for sticking to the end of my most ambitious fanfic. I hope above all else you were entertained reading it as much as I was writing it! Before signing off, I thought I'd share some of the thought processes that went into creating this story: background, reflections on the characters of Batman and Poison Ivy, and various other technical issues. Perhaps this info will be helpful to others in terms of writing your own fanfics, or deepen your appreciation of the story. At the very least, I hope this isn't a waste of your time. If it's not, please read on!

**Background**

Originally I was a novice to the comic book side of Batman, so much so I didn't even know Poison Ivy existed until Batman and Robin! For better and worse, Uma's portrayal made a strong first impression for me. Briefly, there were more than a few things I liked—basically, everything up to the initial confrontation with Batman and Robin. After that, the general awfulness of the movie brings her down. But seeing that movie prompted me to learn more about the character, and soon after I bought one of the four special Batman comic book tie-ins to the movie, the ones titled Batman: Poison Ivy, Mr. Freeze, Bane, and Batgirl To this day Batman: Poison Ivy (which is itself a sequel to the Poison Ivy in Batman: Four of a Kind) is still my favorite Ivy comic, and it has heavily influenced the Ivy I created for Green Dawn.

Fast forward to 2005: after watching and thoroughly loving Batman Begins, I immediately began wondering whether Ivy could ever be part of a Nolan-Bale Batman franchise. Unfortunately, the short answer is no – not because she is inherently unsuitable, but because the story arc they seem to be setting up for the next two movies focuses more on the Joker and Two-Face. It looks like a great arc, but it means secondary villains, especially ones used in the prior movies, are likely to be cut out or relegated to bit parts at best. Another problem is that in terms of characterization Ivy too closely resembles Ra's in motivation, and Crane in using poisons. Villains that basically all imitated the Joker in the first four Batman movies was a major flaw of that series, so the creators of Batman Begins no doubt want to use fresh, different villains (and fresh, different characterizations of Joker and Two-Face).

Still, one can always hope. Literally hours after seeing the movie, I decided to think about making Poison Ivy the central villain of a Batman story set in the Batman Begins universe. The basic idea was to create a full-featured Begins-style story that would take place between Batman Begins and the next movie (which has its official title, Batman: The Dark Knight). While I tried to make the story as cinema-like as possible, in reality I have written it more like one would write a tie-in novel: building on the characterization and events of the official canon story, while leaving the ending open for the future movies. So in Green Dawn, things are set up so that they follow-up on the events from the end of the movie and end in a way that should not conflict with what will probably happen in the next movie. For example, in the official novelization Rachel is actually made DA (and Ra's remains are never found, which is what prompted me to write my other Begins fanfic, Rebirth). Because the story takes place a few months at most after the end of Batman Begins, Wayne Manor has not yet been completed, which means Bruce and Alfred are temporarily living and operating out of Gotham City. Crane and some of the inmates from Arkham are still on the loose, and Batman chasing them down opens the story, setting the stage for Ivy's entrance. At the end of the story, in order to make room for Harvey Dent, Rachel is no longer DA, Batman is more experienced and beloved, and the old mafias that ran Gotham City are in even worse shape, which paves the way for the 'freaks' to rise and become Batman's greatest foes – a story arc that parallels The Long Halloween and Dark Victory and is likely to be followed in the next two movies, especially the fall of Dent and the rise of Two-Face.

**Main Theme**

The main theme of Green Dawn is the question of ends versus means. Just as fear is an essential aspect of Batman's character (and the main theme of Begins), so is the tension between noble ends and questionable means. In that vein, just as the villains of Begins use fear as their weapon, the villains in Green Dawn represent people whose pursuit of ends (good and bad) lead them to do terrible things: Pamela Isley, her henchmen Khalfa and Halley, the FBI and CIA agents, Rupert Thorne. Even Rachel decides to break the law for a higher good, helping Batman. It has been said that Batman's villains are all distorted aspects of himself, and Ivy fits into that—Batman will not kill or maliciously injure criminals in pursuit of justice, but Ivy in almost all her characterizations **will** do those things to those she feels endangers the environment. Poison Ivy best demonstrates the corruption of ends for a worthwhile goal, although Ra's al Ghul and Mr. Freeze can play that game as well. In this story Batman typically manages to avoid the temptation to use easy (violent) means to fight his enemies, a problem I expect to see more of in future Batman movies. If the means Batman chooses to achieve his goals become increasingly ineffective, will Batman continue on, or will he be tempted to 'take the gloves' off, or even abandon the quest? Only time will tell…

**Poison Ivy – A New Approach**

All great comic book characters, heroes and villains, can be represented in many different ways, which means that no portrayal, no matter how well done, can ever be the "definitive" approach. There is typically a core set of elements to every character, but how they are emphasized and fleshed out (or ignored) can vary greatly, leading to very different characterizations that are, nevertheless, all authentic. For Poison Ivy, the list of essential elements is: beauty, seductiveness, environmentalist, uses poisons, controls men and plants. All or almost all of these are part of every Poison Ivy story, but the choice of personality for her can make totally different characters. I will mention two approaches which I have purposely avoided, not because I think they're bad, but only because I developed Ivy in line with the criteria Begins emphasizes: realism and seriousness.

The first approach is predominantly from the various TV cartoons. I call it the 'Gotham Girls' approach, where Ivy has all the aforementioned powers and is a bad guy but not a truly evil figure. Because cartoons on TV are geared largely for children, naturally you can't have the full-version of any Batman character. With Ivy, she is typically paired with Harley Quinn, and they tend to be girls having a night out on the town, wreaking much mischief but not much true destruction. (Harley: "Nice going, Red!") I will be honest and say I am not a fan of this interpretation, but again I emphasize it is not wrong, because it fits in perfectly with the audience it's intended for, and is still faithful to the essence of the character.

The other approach to Ivy, which may be called the traditional one since it is taken by most comics and Batman and Robin, is the 'femme fatale' Ivy. Here, the seductive aspect of Ivy is played up the most, and while she still acts from a general sense of trying to save the environment, that motivation tends to be toned down, and her pursuit of male victims predominates the story. It is also in keeping with Poison Ivy's characterization, especially the early comic appearances, but for me it is not a particularly interesting one either. The main reason is because I think the femme fatale character itself is obsolescent; it worked well in an earlier time when women were less free socially, but in today's cultural landscape the novelty of a beautiful woman who does evil things like murdering suitors and seducing the detectives pursuing them, has pretty much worn off. Uma's Ivy ended up a parody of femme fatale acting as well, and sabotaged what could have been a great performance—of course, no single performance, not even the pleasantly affecting flashback scenes of young Bruce and Alfred, could have saved a fundamentally flawed production like B&R.

The approach I've taken is what one could call the 'sociopathic' Ivy. What I liked most about Batman: Poison Ivy was her portrayal as a vengeful, murderous individual, filled with burning rage against those who destroyed her island sanctuary, and the terrible things she does in response. There is plenty of seductiveness and beauty drawn in Ivy (it's also has my favorite artwork), but it's all a façade for a deeply troubled and disturbing persona. And that is what I tried to create in Green Dawn, an Ivy whose desire to do something good (save the environment) is slowly twisted in response to external events, until she chooses (emphasis on chooses) to become a completely amoral sociopath, with no regard for human life whatsoever. More than anything else, I wanted to make Poison Ivy a truly formidable and fearsome villain, and it's not physical or mental powers which do that, but rather their personality and behavior. So here Poison Ivy is made into a dispassionate mad scientist, who views the deaths of her victims with no more concern as if she were recording the results of a lab experiment killing her rats. The fact that she's so beautiful and seemingly harmless—I actually wanted her to give off a more wholesome, innocent 'girl next door' vibe—makes her murderous actions all the more horrifying. Uma killing people in Batman and Robin was mordantly humorous; Ivy's many instances of killing in Green Dawn should all have been horrible and disgusting experiences to read. Think of yourself as an innocent victim of an evil medical experiment, with the last thing you see being a doctor taking notes about your death. _That's _what Ivy's hits should read like!

The next step was to create a 'realistic' Ivy, no easy task given her fantastic powers. The idea for a realistic Ivy came from reading about pancreas transplants and attempts to treat Type I diabetes. One line of experimentation I read concerned 'encapsulated' islet cells – instead of transplanting whole pancreases (which include the islet cells that make insulin), use capsules to protect islet-cell transplants from immune rejection. Reading sites like this around the time of Begins, it suddenly struck me this could be the basis of a 'realistic' Ivy's poison powers. Of course, nothing like this really could happen, but it has enough plausibility to work for a sci-fi/comicbook story. From this base, the obvious way to develop Ivy was as an eco-terrorist, with emphasis on terrorist. I modeled her activities on the actions of various leftist terrorist campaigns in Western Europe in the 70s and 80s, only much more deadly and trying to be as realistic as possible in terms of how a terrorist group would really operate – not like James Bond or Alias, more like al-Qaeda. Of course, Ivy is no ordinary terrorist: her encapsulated cells not only give her poison attack powers, but also make her immune to poisons—a power which is generally not exhibited in the comics. In this story, the fact that she can safely handle poisons gives her the edge in several situations.

For purposes of realism, I completely left out her main comic-book power, control of plants, although she does on occasion talk to them as if they were friends! The trickiest part was her control of men power. This was something I was considering leaving out, since it is rather unrealistic, and in a way it diminishes her character: the whole idea of a femme fatale is that their beauty alone is power enough to ensnare men and lead them to their doom, but if you make it a mind-control thing then the beauty part becomes irrelevant in a way. But because it is so much a part of her background, I tried to make it work (somewhat shakily, I must admit). As Uma said, "she's a lover, not a fighter," but I liked the idea of making her tougher than normal, so I made her able to take the best Batman could dish out and still remain standing. As an aside, there's a great line from Batman: Poison Ivy: when Batman subdues her near the end, she taunts, "Go ahead and hit me, it won't be the first time." Heh heh!

Finally, some words about her appearance and costume. I decided to go with the taller version of Ivy, about the same proportions as Uma Thurman (6 feet tall, long legs). One popular discussion on Batman message boards is thinking of different actors and actresses to play potential future characters. For Ivy, I've heard suggestions ranging from Isla Fisher to Angelina Jolie to Charlize Theron to Rachel MacAdams, even Julianne Moore. Of actual actresses I must say I would really think Theron would make a great Ivy (Jolie would make a great Catwoman, albeit she's too well known), but for this story I actually found an image that was almost haunting in how Ivyesque it was. It's a pencil drawing of Emmy Rossum, who might actually be a good waif-like Poison Ivy. But this drawing (based on an actual photo), just has this amazing combination of beauty, innocence, and potential crazed menace just lying beneath. You can see for yourself at the following link -- make (com) into 'dot-com', join the following 3 lines together with a slash at the end of each line:

deviantart(com)  
deviation  
27420659

Any trouble with links (Fanfiction seems to block all URLs), just PM me.

Regarding her costume, part of what has made Ivy seem less of a threat may be the fact that she goes around in a leaf-covered leotard! The traditional costumes (which have grown steadily skimpier over the years) do well to emphasize her hotness, but inevitably weaken her menace. So in keeping with the Nolanesque approach of grounding Batman in a real world as much as possible, I modified Ivy's costume a lot, except for the color. This is where I think the TV cartoons actually do it better than most comics: I like the drawings of an extremely pale Ivy wearing a short dark green dress, no stockings, green gloves and green lipstick—I believe this is from later versions of The Animated Series. For Ivy, I thought her costume should be something one would wear in a risque nightclub, prowling at night in the wilder parts of Gotham City. A real terrorist, of course, doesn't want to draw attention to herself, but in the context of Club Evolution, which is her cover and secret area for recruiting, dressing in an exotic/erotic costume would not be a bad idea. It also symbolizes Isley's acceptance of her wild side, but as the 'Extreme Makeover' chapter suggests, it is purely instrumental—Poison Ivy does not care about fashion! (and cute guys are fertilizer at best!) So being creative, I clothed Ivy in some pretty wild stuff: dark green fishnet stockings, short miniskirt, open top and long dark green gloves. The closest I've been able to find is this picture of Tina Fey. My Poison Ivy wears something like this, except dark forest green; the jacket/top is short-sleeved; her skirt is shorter and her midriff is exposed. Check out the link below:

Tina Fey in an Ivy-style costume: (Follow above directions, make (htm) into 'dot-htm', replace ... with underscore)

born-today(com)  
Today  
fey...tina(htm)

Quickly for other characters, here are the physical images I had in mind:

Khalfa:  
Snoop Dog

Halley:  
Pink

Hayashi:  
(Mr. Roboto from "Goldmember")

Cataldi:  
Mario Puzo

Thorne:  
Daniel Craig (the new James Bond)

Rita:  
Eva Longoria

Moritz & Jones:  
- any two middle-aged nondescript white men! –

If I get requests for other characters, I'll update as needed! One last thing – here are two websites which provided invaluable background research material.

Goto Poison Ivy's entry on Wikipedia, click on second link and third link.

**Characteristics of Batman and others**

As much as I love Poison Ivy, she is merely the villain, so Batman must ultimately take center stage in the story. Given that this takes place relatively soon after the events of Begins, I did not deliberately take his character in radical new directions. One likely arc for the future is that being Batman will become increasingly difficult, thus stressing his character and possibly raising the dangers of giving in to temptation and abandoning his restraints in a campaign of pure violence. Struggling with the darkness within that the murder of his parents created is fundamental to the character of Batman, and every significant Batman story must include it at least in part, although there is not that much here. Although the way I wrote this story made it impossible to show off Batman's detective skills completely, I hope it was enough to make his detective skills credible.

I did try to steer Bruce Wayne back a bit on to the path of public respectability; he was in a pretty bad spot in Begins (however necessary it was), and unlike some I don't like showing him as being a vain, carefree playboy with no public concern. It's not inaccurate, but I just don't like it. He doesn't have to be an all-out humanitarian, just something in the middle. I thought they did the Bruce-Alfred relationship very well in Begins, although it will be interesting to see how it develops in the future—closer, or perhaps more strain? Either way would work, although I definitely kept their relationship good.

About Rachel – unfortunately I think the end of Batman Begins has painted her into a bit of a corner. She's a childhood friend (a good one, unlike Thomas Elliot), which is a nice addition to Bruce's otherwise grim life, but by giving her Dent's job or something like it in Begins, they almost have to push her aside for the next two movies, unless they make her a girlfriend of Dent or Bruce, since Dent will have to take on the lawyer role. Assuming she doesn't drop out, hooking up with Dent seems the most likely option. I briefly touch on Bruce and Rachel's relationship—no way they can so easily pull apart like that, knowing what each of them knows about the other, but Batman is a character that cannot form long-term relationships with women, so they have to remain apart. Putting Ivy in the mix does one thing: it helps set the stage for Bruce's/Batman's interest in women who are, shall we say, not so safe. The contrast between a grounded, stable Rachel and the wild but destructive Isley, is something Bruce sees, and the Batman side of him secretly is drawn to, even though he knows he can and should never be with her. In my opinion Batman's relationship Ivy should not be based primarily on romantic considerations—Catwoman and Talia fit that role better—but rather in recognizing the good within an evil person and trying to reach out to her so that she will rehabilitate herself. This is evident in Batman: Poison Ivy, and I admit they probably did it better than I did. It is a dynamic also present in Batman's future confrontation with Two-Face (without the romance!). But by at least planting the seed of doubt and desire in the back of his head, Ivy becomes a catalyst for Bruce/Batman to fall for someone like Catwoman or Talia in the future.

Some of the new characters I should mention: Rupert Thorne is one of the gangster villains from the comics, like Falcone. I don't really know anything about him, so I basically made everything up. One of the greatest Batman stories, The Long Halloween and its sequel Dark Victory, shows that while Batman's initial enemy is normal city crime and corruption, as a result of his action the 'costumed freaks' take over crime in Gotham and in many ways, makes the situation worse. I'm certain that will be part of the story for the next few movies, and I incorporated that in a small way here. Unfortunately due to time constraints almost everything about Thorne was cut out; part of this story was going to be his ongoing pursuit of Batman and taking advantage of the havoc raised by Green Dawn, and possibly even interactions with them. Oh well, I think there's enough in the beginning and end chapters to get that idea across, that Thorne's attempt to unify the mob under his rule has the opposite effect, starting a free-for-all that will continue in the future and lead to the rise of the freaks.

Moritz and Jones are evil versions of Mulder and Sculley of X-Files fame  Their role became more important after I cut back on Thorne, and help contribute to the corrupt Gotham (or U.S. government) angle. One problem with my plans for this story was a lack of action, so their efforts help keep Batman in fighting shape.

**Conclusions**

Okay, hope all this has proven informative and interesting! Coming next, the absolute last post of Green Dawn, will be a chapter-by-chapter commentary, where I will share inside thoughts and trivia. And for those hardy souls who read to the end, a special surprise!

Scruffy-looking,  
October 12, 2006


	31. Chapter Commentary

**Green Dawn Chapter Commentary**

I know many people when they buy DVDs are ok with just getting the movie. For me, I love all the bonus material—commentaries, deleted scenes, documentaries, you name it, I'll watch it! Typically for written stories, you don't get that kind of behind-the-scene insight, but I definitely want to share my thoughts with everyone. So for each chapter I will comment on what I was thinking, key points, and stuff like that. Enjoy! **(Warning: spoilers below)**

**Chapter 1**

Batman always begins at night.

This was something I envisioned almost from the beginning as the opening chapter: Batman hard at work, tracking down an escaped Arkham inmate, who is simultaneously trying to escape the Caped Crusader hot on his tail, while also hunting the citizenry of Gotham. It makes for a nice appetizer for the story to come.

**Chapter 2**

This was another mental image I had from the beginning: Isley in a white labcoat madly pedaling a bike down a busy Gotham street on a rainy morning. That singular, crazy determination is something very characteristic of Ivy. As an aside, it was difficult writing the scene in such a way to hide the fact that it was her until the next scene (notice I didn't say 'she' or 'her' at all in describing the biker).

I envisioned Isley pre-Ivy dressed like your typical lab rat, very casual—jeans, sweatshirt, and sneakers (like your everyday postdoc going to lab). Of course, for the degenerates working at Cataldi, her dressing down doesn't fool them!

**Chapter 3**

Now we see Isley being mercilessly hit upon by the lecherous workers of Cataldi Pharmaceuticals! The part where she places her hand on Lieberman's cheek is the first of many foreshadowings; what is a friendly gesture here becomes something much more sinister later on.

One thing about writing a story: sometimes it's hard to remember the details to be consistent! In writing this story, I had to constantly go back and check what I wrote about things like who's on what floor, what a room looks like, etc. I'm sure there are inconsistencies which I didn't catch, and I apologize—I wrote this story very quickly, because I was moving this fall and I wanted to finish before then. Also, make note of the unsanitary lab bench, it plays a role in getting Ivy off at the very end.

The scene with Staughton establishes both the amoral environment she works in, and her considerable mental abilities which later become the basis of her powers as Poison Ivy. Being something of a science buff, I have tried very hard to get the scientific details correct, although again I'm sure I messed up in places, and factual accuracy ultimately must be subsumed for the larger goal of the story itself. Fiction is like that; stories are opinions about reality, but not reality themselves.

We also are introduced to Isley's main passion, environmentalism. Note that even those fanatically dedicated to saving the Earth are not above hitting on Isley themselves! The last paragraph is part of the backstory I created for Isley, and how she ended up in Gotham City.

**Chapter 4**

Getting back to the familiar aspects of Gotham City, I set the stage for where the main characters are at the beginning of Green Dawn, a few months after the end of the first movie: Rachel is now acting DA, Batman and Gordon are working more closely together, dealing with the fallout from Falcone's fall. One thing you can do in words that you can't do on screen is get into the character's heads, and I take advantage of that repeatedly in this story, especially when Gordon and Rachel are having second thoughts about Batman. In the final scene, I hint at the complications that Rachel will have with Bruce (and Batman) in their relationship. Personally I like Rachel the character, but I also understand the complications she poses for the future evolution of the Batman Begins series (although it's nothing compared to Lois Lane's son in Superman Returns!) More on this later…

I suspect the idea of a mob war is going to be a major part of the second movie, but it doesn't hurt to get a preview! This is also Rupert Thorne's entrance. As I said earlier, I had to cut back some of the ideas I had of Thorne hunting down Batman. No matter how much space or time you have, you can never include everything you want in a creative endeavor.

**Chapter 5**

I had envisioned more scenes with Bruce Wayne among the wealthy elites of Gotham, but they were deleted. This scene is sufficient for my purposes—remembering that he really alienated his peers at his birthday party, I wanted to show Bruce trying to repair the damage to his name without compromising who he really is. Some stories show Bruce Wayne as a carefree playboy, and while that might be the better character, I don't think Bruce should be a cad. All-out humanitarian like in the previous movies series may be too much, but he shouldn't be an a-hole, either.

Carefully reread the interaction with Judge McKenna. Can you see the foreshadowing?

I was almost going to have them working out of Wayne Manor, then I remembered his house is likely still under construction! So I created the idea of the Pad, which I really like—it sort of makes sense Batman would have a city hideout or two.

One thing I've found that helps in writing dialogue that I write for characters: saying it aloud, trying to mimic their voices. It was fun doing it for Alfred, let me tell you!

**Chapter 6**

Back to Isley! If this were an actual movie, all this development of Isley's background would be excessive, but I wanted to do it here. One of the ideas in this story is the notion of hierarchies of evil—contrasting people who are bad in a small-time way with those who are truly monstrous. It makes for a complicated, grey world, which suits Batman very well. So as bad as the people at Cataldi are, what Isley does is worse. Or is it? That's for you to decide…

_(deleted material from M-rated version of story - Staughton is doing something very nasty, and this is what sends Isley over the edge)_

In retrospect, I wasn't as clever as I thought. For a long time I had the image of Isley just 'snapping' after one too many degradations at Cataldi, and running out into a dark, foreboding park, and while surrounded by dying trees make the choice of becoming Poison Ivy, but I thought I was being original. Of course, there are similarities with my depiction of Isley's turning into Ivy with Selina Kyle turning into Catwoman in Batman Returns, or the comic Batman: The Killing Joke. But I do like the twist I put at the end: if her ID card had not landed where it did, would there have been an Ivy at all?

**Note: _Toxicodendron radicans_ is the scientific name for poison ivy.**

**Chapter 7**

As the bus ride suggests, Isley is one seriously-messed up woman now; having decided to turn to violence, she uses her immensely powerful brain to begin formulating her evil plans, and woe be to those who are her targets, or just get in her way. Like Selina in Batman Returns, I didn't want Isley to be an accomplished seductress at the beginning, but rather grow into the role. And Staughton's death is another example of the 'hierarchy of evil' I mentioned earlier: no matter how nasty and disgusting he is, he didn't deserve to be killed the way he was.

The constant references to 'The Machine' is a reference to the short story, The Machine Stops by E.M. Forster. I remember reading it in high school, but only the ending when the oppressive civilization collapses.

**Chapter 8**

Shopping spree! Yes, this was an naughty chapter, but it had its purpose. Poison Ivy is definitely a femme fatale character, but overdoing it makes her less interesting, so the seductive aspect has to be used sparingly. Indeed, I'll go further and say that Isley's… clinical approach to analyzing human sexuality is meant to be a turn off. It's all a game to her, she really doesn't care about relationships or romance or any other such 'trivialities'. I had the idea of a friendly, engaging Isley coming up to you, then when she strikes, she doesn't get vindictive or boastful, merely clinical in noting your death. Brr!

In that dense jargon-filled passage which follows, you will find a reference to the 'synthetic enzyme' that will ultimately be her downfall. It's hard not to tip your hand, so I tried to hide it as much as I could.

**Chapter 9**

In doing research I looked up as many poisons as I could, and almost all the poisons mentioned in this story are real, especially if they have a specific name, as are most of the antidotes. I read that you take fomepizole if you accidentally drink methanol (ironically, drinking regular alcohol also helps). Making her victim drink methanol, then go blind and crash their car the next day was an idea I had come up with in brainstorming ways in which Isley could begin learning to be a poisoner. Watner may have been a bastard, but the way he goes out… ouch.

**Chapter 10**

Poisoning a businessman with tetrodotoxin and making it look like they ate tainted _fugu_ was another specific idea I long had in mind, hence Hayashi Co. Now I did push credulity in this scene, because others could have seen Isley in the presence of Hayashi during the concert, but I couldn't think of a way for her to anonymously meet with him, so I had her put on a disguise and confront him directly. My original idea of her meeting him at a business fair would not have worked.

**Chapter 11**

At first I wasn't going to include the mind-control power of Ivy, but I realized it was too central to the character, so I tried to come up with a convoluted explanation of how she could do it. Technically, it's not based on pheromones, but on drug addiction—certainly, addicts will do almost anything for a fix, so that was the basis on which I wanted to make Isley's powers work.

Because Isley doesn't want to raise suspicions, she tries very carefully to cover her tracks. Again, this scene is probably too convoluted: Isley gets away with too much, too easily. Then again, men are known to do lots of stupid things to satisfy their desires!

It bears repeating: Isley is completely sociopathic, and has jettisoned all compassion and empathy for other human beings. I mean, the way she kills Rita as if she were nothing but a lab sample? The innocent banter she has with the helpless Franks as she sets him up not only for death, but total humiliation, is meant to be unnerving.

_(In the M-version, this scene was slightly more racier)_

**Chapter 12**

What does 'Batman: Green Dawn' mean? Now you know. Shades of 'Asian Dawn' from Die Hard!

At long last, Ivy (through Green Dawn) is ready to strike against the Machine. Of course, the question is how to avoid suspicion, given her ability and potential motive. What better way than to pretend you got sick from the attack as well? I imagine the real police would do a better job in checking into Isley's background and connecting the dots, but then again, this is Gotham City we're talking about.

**Chapter 13**

Wait, is this a story about Batman? Sorry for the long tangent, but I really wanted to set Isley up as a menace worthy of Batman. Thinking it over, Ivy the way I portrayed her doesn't need to be supermodel-beautiful; a sweet, innocent Ivy might be even more scary than a beautiful femme fatale-type. After all, it's even more jarring when you sweet, wholesome, all-American girl is really a serial-killer! But gorgeous Ivy will do as well.

Oh, poor Gordon—so close to the truth! I tortured him more than once like that in this story, heh heh!

**Chapter 14**

Lots happening in this chapter. I mentioned Thorne earlier, so I won't say anything more. Honestly, it was getting difficult sorting out all the threads, so I decided not to develop the idea of the mob getting involved in the Green Dawn fight. Another major idea of Green Dawn is the possible connection with the League of Shadows. This would be a bad idea for a movie, but works in a story that is an immediate sequel to Begins. Also, because Ivy and Ra's goals are similar (but not the same), it serves as a way to confuse things, bring in the feds as another enemy, and even raise doubts between Batman and Gordon and Rachel.

Moritz and Jones are the evil X-Files dudes! Perhaps not so menacing, but definitely shady.

Khalfa and Halley are strictly tertiary characters, but I tried to give them a little more flare. Khalfa is the more thoughtful one, and while he doesn't look that dangerous, in a fight he's as good as anyone. Halley is the more straightforward, less intelligent, more brutal person. In imagining what they look like, Snoop Dog and Pink kept popping into my mind, so why not?

By the way, I forgot to check whether I consistently made Khalfa Thistle or Thorn, so if it's not right, my bad.

**Chapter 15**

A montage of destruction that saves me having to write extra chapters!

It's probably true that Bruce/Batman would have gotten involved much sooner, but since he is still new to being Batman, I decided to make him a bit more cautious and hold back. This story is very much a chess game between many players, and as you see, all the characters make major mistakes in judgment. It's a literary technique I've adopted from reading various stories, and it helps to keep things 'real' in a sense, and the outcome uncertain, when your characters, good and bad, make mistakes.

Poison Ivy staging a deadly attack against Gotham's beautiful people is something perfectly in keeping with the character. The fact that they so vainly accept her as one of them because of her physical appearance is evidence of the type of shallow thinking someone like Ivy absolutely despises. Of course, just because the people at Parkville were vain, greedy and self-centered, they weren't as bad as an ideologue like Ivy!

**Chapters 16 & 17**

I wish this scene in 16 was a little more elaborate—in particular, that there would have been an actual confrontation between Batman and Poison Ivy—but that would have forced the story to end there. In Batman: Poison Ivy, the confrontation doesn't take place until the end; because she doesn't wear a mask, once Batman knows who she is the confrontation has to take place right there, so it's necessary to drag out the pursuit. But the battle is definitely joined, so I like the idea of Isley pretending that Batman is the one responsible for Green Dawn! Raising the suspicions of the authorities that Green Dawn is related to the League of Shadows, and that Batman is helping them, is of course tremendously ironic, because for a time Bruce Wayne was a member of the League of Shadows! So Isley's wild shot in the dark really complicates things for Bruce.

In this story, I make the assumption that the authorities are aware that the League exists and have a vague sense of what its goals are, but no other information. The fact that Batman appears just before the League strikes seems a suspicious coincidence for Moritz and Jones (for good reason, since there was a connection!) Hopefully our government is not so venal as they are, but then again, in real life we did bring in Nazi scientists after the war to help our rocket program, we did turn the other way when the contras were selling cocaine to fund their activities, we did help Islamic guerrillas who would become al-Qaeda. Where's Batman when you really need him?

Isley pretending to be an informant is a very risky strategy, especially since her background makes her a suspect, so I have to do lots of covering up to make it plausible that they would believe her instead of suspect her. Notice also how close Jones is to the truth, yet gets it totally wrong. Everyone's trying to double cross each other here, so it's a bit confusing, but Isley makes the assumption (which is correct) that Batman has inside help inside the city government and police. Learning this, Moritz and Jones suspect Rachel may be involved, so they leak the plan to meet with the informant to her thinking it will lead Batman into their trap.

_Note: in the reworked version, I have substantially cleaned up the schemes of Ivy and the FBI, and what Rachel and Bruce know. It was slightly inconsistent before, now it should make more sense._

**Chapters 18 & 19**

Now even Batman jumps to conclusions, thinking for the moment that Green Dawn is related to the League because he thinks it's their way for getting revenge on him! He also thinks he's a step ahead them, but then falls into the trap within a trap! Only luck and pure skill saves the day.

I really enjoyed writing the action for this. Often, you have a sense of what you want to happen, but when writing the details, they literally take on a life of their own, almost forcing you to go in different ways. Sometimes ideas that make perfect sense become unworkable, while new and unknown approaches suddenly reveal themselves in the course of writing. So while I figured out how Batman could escape from City Hall, I had not figured out how he could escape altogether. Writing one step led to another, and though it was a close one, Batman got away!

Writing Bruce getting seriously hurt is a reminder that he's chosen a very hard path. But it also gives him an excuse to take time off and put on the detective hat! Personally I'm not as insistent as others may be that Batman must be shown as the world's greatest detective, especially in a movie format. Writing a good mystery is hard (although the hardest thing for me to write is actually humor), so if the chapter where Bruce deduces things about Green Dawn is a bit contrived, I understand. But I did enjoy writing the way he finds the answers—of course, it's easier for Bruce when the Author is helping you! Specifically, the six dishes clue, the methanol connection, Franks' so-called suicide, and the final inference which ties it all together: that a beautiful but cold-hearted woman is somehow involved.

**Chapters 20 & 21**

Never cross Poison Ivy! Also, Khalfa's warning to Isley comes straight from the end of the computer game Starcraft: Broodwar. When will they ever come out with Starcraft 2:-(

In addition to increasing the amount of Bruce and Pamela interactions, having Isley attempt to infiltrate Wayne Enterprises, and Bruce pretending to be sympathetic to Green Dawn's ends (if not their means) helps set up Ivy for the final fall in the final confrontation. Ivy's biggest personal weakness is arrogance—she is very confident of her abilities, and that's usually how Batman defeats her; see Four of a Kind for a juicy example of this. Interestingly, Isley downplays her environmental goals in order to avoid suspicion, while Bruce plays up his to probe Isley's background and see whether she's a Green Dawn sympathizer.

Fellow Princetonians will note some of the inside references to Old Nassau in their conversations. Can you figure out additional clues about the author from what's stated there? If you're as good a detective as Batman, the answer is yes!

Of course, while Pamela Isley is fairly unassuming, Bruce's dreams reveal the truth within. Note: that last paragraph in 21 is a dream, Isley is not actually in the bedroom with him!

**Chapters 22 & 23**

Here is a little mini-detective work by Batman of an event not already seen before. He almost figures out how Green Dawn is accomplishing its seemingly impossible attacks, but at the last moment rejects it. Obviously Bruce didn't read Sherlock Holmes! But he is trying to get into Isley's head. Again, it's not totally successful, but it confuses Ivy just enough for her to make the fatal mistake in 28. Notice Bruce intentionally parroting Ra's words as well! ('This is not how man was supposed to live!' 'movement back to harmony')

The purpose of the LHRH is to purposely dampen Bruce's sex drive, thereby limiting Bruce's attention to her. Once he realizes what's happened, he becomes much more suspicious…but it's too late! Isley hits him with the dampener again, and tampers with his memory to boot! This gives her time to continue looking for what she needs.

In 23 Rachel decides to do something improper for a higher end. It will cost her dearly, but because it was her decision, she has no regrets. If you're wondering, Moritz and Jones warn Isley and she disappears to her safehouse. However, because she is intrigued by all of Bruce's statements, she decides to risk an attempt at recruiting him.

**Chapters 24 & 25**

If you reread, you will see that to date there have only been a few references to Isley as Poison Ivy. Where does the name come from? Technically the answer is in 6, but it is openly revealed in this chapter. It also serves as a 'second introduction', and now we see Ivy "in costume" for the first time. For this scene, I had always imagined Bruce Wayne going in undercover—not disguised as Batman, but as Bruce Wayne, dressed to impress for a night out on the town. He may have told Lucius he hits the clubs regularly, but I suspect having fun in this manner is something Bruce Wayne normally doesn't like to do.

All the efforts Bruce made in trying to look like a covert environmentalist pay off—instead of killing him, Ivy merely puts him under his mental control for interrogation purposes, and again Ivy makes a mistake and misinterprets the truth Bruce is hiding—not that he is a radical in disguise (which is what Ivy begins to think), but that he is Batman!

Yes, Bruce Wayne has fallen under Ivy's spell. Fortunately for him, Ivy doesn't make him do anything suicidal, and even though he usually prefers to be alone, Bruce has enough people involved in his life who care about him that they notice when he's not himself, and are able to save him in time. The rest of 26 is sort of the Scooby-Doo moment when the entire background of the villain is finally revealed, so now he clearly knows what he is up against. The little pre-battle speech Bruce gives is maybe not as good as Russell Crow in Gladiator, but I think it's stirring nonetheless!

_I wanted one last Ivy action sequence, so I added the acid attack inside Wayne Enterprises. Hydroflouric acid is really nasty, and I found there is a relatively straightforward way to treat it, making it perfect for Ivy to use._

**Chapters 26 & 27**

The final battle in two parts. Originally it was to take place in a water plant, that's how Ivy would release her doomsday germs, but I had forgotten what happened in Begins! So I moved it to Ivy's headquarters, which is not that original (it happens in Batman: Four of a Kind and Batman: Poison Ivy), but the fight in the nightclub was definitely something I wanted to do. It was a bit tricky figuring out a way to set things up so that it could end up as a one-on-one battle between Batman and Poison Ivy, so forgive me if it seems a bit stretched. Originally Ivy was going to kill everyone in the club, but I couldn't do that with Gordon in the scene. Instead, I had all the club members under her control go out and riot in the street, which draws off the police and frees Batman to go after Ivy.

The fight with Thistle and Thorn is sweet but short. I was running out of ideas and time, sorry.

I don't make any apologies for the actual fight between Batman and Poison Ivy being very short and one-sided, however. Most of Batman's foes are not physical matches for him, so it would be unrealistic (especially in Ivy's case) for a long drawn-out brawl. To underlie the fact that Batman and Ivy are mortal foes now, I have him hit her hard, which is pretty nasty, but remember Batman is a good man, not a nice one! I did like the way he totally humiliates her by subduing her in 5 seconds, then his comeuppance when she manages to paralyze him despite his armor. And of course, what would any good villain be without, to quote The Incredibles, taking the opportunity to start monologuing! Hopefully all the interactions between the two set things up so that Ivy is willing not to kill Batman immediately, and when she learns his identity, not to kill Bruce Wayne immediately. Because she has a sliver of admiration for Bruce, she is willing to kiss him, which leads her to being poisoned. The clue to this, of course, was all the way back in 8. I had planned this ending not long after conceiving the story, because the irony was too rich, and because I wanted Batman to outthink Ivy to victory, and not just beat her down (heh heh).

Actually, Batman had a dartgun filled with 2678-B, but chose not to use it (again, proper means to a worthy end) out of fear of hurting Ivy excessively. The lip gloss was an example of Bruce thinking ahead, for the worst-case scenario. Why he suddenly kisses her is explained in the final chapter.

**Chapter 28**

This chapter wraps everything up. A real Ivy caught by the justice system wouldn't have a chance in hell of getting off, but this is Gotham, and Moritz and Jones have their own plans! Getting Ivy sent to Arkham also allows Rachel to give up the DA's office for Dent (who gets a cameo mention). Thorne gets his story arc wrapped up; again I wish I had more time to expand it, but that's the way it is.

Yes, that bizarre scene in boldface is none other than The Joker. I still don't have a good handle on the character like I do Batman or Poison Ivy, so I went with the craziest stuff I could throw together. Basically, he's having a great time with all the mayhem going on, and hates to see it end, so now he's going to make 'laughs' for himself.

Reflecting the means vs. ends theme of the story, Rachel was willing to do the wrong things for the right reason (which, in a nutshell, is what Batman does). Perhaps unlike Batman, she is willing to accept the responsibility for doing so (she doesn't wear a mask). In the end, their relationship is still complicated, made more so by the fact that Bruce still has a little Ivy on the brain. I wrote that part the way I did to pave the way for a future Catwoman or Talia to come into his life. It's a bit unorthodox to have Ivy be the spark that makes Bruce/Batman prefer dangerous women over stabler ones like Rachel, but as I said before, I don't think Batman and Ivy can have a romantic relationship—it does a disservice to both characters. Better that Batman try—and fail—to rehabilitate Ivy.

Finally, Moritz and Jones pay the price for dancing with the devil. Evolution always results in the unexpected, so just when everyone thinks Ivy's been completely neutralized, she strikes! The fact that she has a memory-erasing drug cocktail is convenient, since it allows me to erase her knowledge of the fact that Batman is Bruce Wayne. And we all know, no prison can keep Ivy locked up forever!

**Chapter 29 (New Chapter)**

Sometime in November while reviewing this story, I realized that I left out a final Batman-Gordon scene, and that this scene should be the real end, not the Ivy chapter, because this is ultimately a story about Batman, after all. Finally I had time over the break to reedit and correct mistakes, and now this chapter is here for you to read. Note the reordering of chapters -- the old Chapter 29 (Notes) is now Chapter 30, and the new Chapter 29 is the end of the story itself.

One of things hinted at in the story is Gordon slowly wondering about the possible connections with Batman and the attack by the League of Shadows - is it coincidence that Batman appears, and that a devastating terrorist attack on Gotham takes place? We know it isn't coincidence, but Gordon begins to wonder, along with having some doubts about allying with someone who is a complete mystery. While Batman shouldn't tell Gordon who he is, I think it's important that Batman try to be more honest with Gordon, and let him know about his troubled background. I decided not to have Bruce tell Rachel about the League of Shadows, since she already know his background, and to do so would be unnecessary duplication.

I don't know if the next movie will go into Batman and Gordon's relationship in this manner, probably not, but I think the theme of Batman's relationship becoming more troubled, for whatever reason, would make for good drama, and we'll probably see something along those lines in The Dark Knight.


	32. Postscript

**Postscript: **_**Batman: Green Dawn**_** in light of **_**The Dark Knight**_

Warning: spoilers for movie below

Greetings, Ivy fans! By now most of you have undoubtedly seen _The Dark Knight._ As superior as _Batman Begins _was to the previous films, I think _The Dark Knight_ rises above even its great predecessor to the same degree. It truly might be "the greatest Batman story ever told"!

_Batman: Green Dawn_ was written not only to be a Poison Ivy story worthy of the character, but as a 'bridge' story between BB and TDK. As it turns out, _Gotham Knights_ is an official attempt at that; I have not yet seen it, though I want to. My story was meant as a bridge story not only chronologically, but thematically: BB clearly ended on a cautionary note, with the idea that Batman himself might provoke an extreme and escalating reaction. That happened in spades in TDK, so much so I genuinely wonder whether Batman as a figure or person will survive the third movie (if there is one!)

I wanted to lead into that by exploring as the main theme the issue of ends versus means. Poison Ivy is a very good villain to exemplify that, as she has wonderful goals, but has been twisted by her personal experiences to use truly terrible means to achieve them. In my story, this dilemma is not really played out for Batman, because he does not engage in any actions which might cross the line, but it exists as an ever-present background factor. We tend to be so enamored of his skills that often we do not stop to think that, objectively, his actions are very troubling. After all, if it's okay for Bruce Wayne to be Batman, why not Brian Douglass (from TDK)? And what does that imply for law and order? If the ends justify the means, is Ivy right? Or Ra's? Or even the Joker?

I've been rereading the story since TDK. Of course, there are many inconsistencies: Dent is not from Chicago; my Mayor 'Limpseed' is nothing like the one in the movie. One thing I think I missed (to my great surprise) is how strongly Bruce seems to want a relationship with Rachel in TDK. In _Green Dawn_, while Bruce's friendship is stronger than ever, I deliberately left Bruce in a state of mind where he was beginning to embrace his dark side, and would eventually seek female companions who were closer to that end—but not as dark and evil as Poison Ivy! This would mean Catwoman, of course, and Talia al'Gul if they ever wanted to go back to the League of Shadows. Perhaps the rise of Dent and the continued grind of fighting crime at Batman caused a change of heart. One thing I like about Begins and TDK is that they hint at the idea that Bruce wants a normal life, even as much as he needs or enjoys being Batman. This is probably not a popular thought (after all, then there would be no more Batman!) but I think it makes Bruce a more complex, interesting character.

Of course, Bruce Wayne's relationship arc is now completely up in the air. I strongly believed Rachel would eventually die onscreen (see my fanfic _Rebirth_), but I thought Rachel would die in the third movie, not the second.

Some things are closer: the idea of Bruce and Alfred living in an apartment (nothing so grandiose as the movie!) and having a Batcycle as opposed to a BatPod. I also hinted occasionally at the idea that Bruce might want to put down the mantle of Batman, but not as much as TDK played with. In terms of leading up to TDK, I think the last chapter, of Batman and Gordon speaking, really does a nice job of hinting at what would lie in store for both men in TDK. Bruce as Batman might do a little too much smiling in this scene and elsewhere in the story (a criticism I received from someone which I think has validity), but I did want Batman to hint, at least a little, that he had a human side when he confessed (more or less) to being in the League of Shadows. Please reread and see for yourselves!

One last thing: I did predict back in October 2006 they'd make Rachel Harvey's girlfriend (although I did not guess they'd make her his fiancee). Kudos for me! :-)

So what does TDK suggest for Poison Ivy actually being in the third Batman film in this series? Unfortunately, an appearance by Ivy is still very unlikely at best. Ivy is a little too similar to Ra's, which would make her inclusion somewhat repetitive. And _Green Dawn_ to the contrary, she probably can't carry a movie on her own. There are a few hopes, however. One, we may see another future _Gotham Knights—_type production which includes more of the minor villains (as GK included Deadshot, Killer Croc, and even Man-Bat!). If they want to use _Green Dawn_ as a template, WB is free to do so! :-)

More distant, but still possible, is an idea I've run across in online forums for the third movie: in the wake of the Joker's actions, Gotham City is taken over by the freaks, and Batman and Gordon have their hands full dealing with them. In such a movie, there would be little to no exposition of villain backstories, but they would hit the ground running. A movie like that could definitely have a live-action Poison Ivy in it. Let's keep our fingers crossed!

In the meantime, I announce my return to Batman fanfics by rewarding you loyal readers with a preview from a coming story, a preview that includes Poison Ivy! While her appearance will be more of a minor/cameo-type role, it will be memorable, and more importantly, pose a great challenge to Bruce Wayne/Batman.

Please read and enjoy the following excerpt!

Scruffy,  
August 21, 2008

* * *

…_He was running after her, chasing her through the garden. He yelled for her to stop, but she was nowhere to be seen. He had lost her…_

…_He ran, faster than ever: desperate to catch her… fearful of what would happen if he did…_

…_With no warning, he fell. No, he had tripped over something. Painfully he got to his feet—and was stuck. "What the hell?" _

…_Something had wrapped itself around his left leg. It took a while before he noticed it was a green, leafy vine. How did that happen? Irritated, he reached down and tried to pull it apart; it didn't rip, not even a tiny bit. Puzzled, he hardly noticed until he saw it: another green vine had wrapped itself around his right leg. _

…_What he saw was simply impossible. With astonishing speed, vines erupted from the ground, more and more of them, wrapping themselves around every part of his body. He almost yelled in pain; some of them had sharp bristles and thorns, while others seemed to burn at the touch._

…_Fighting back panic, he struggled uselessly as these impossible vines lifted him off the ground and held him, spread-eagled and hunched over, until he could not move an inch. Such immobility was terrifying, for now he was helpless._

…_At last, the brush ahead stirred—someone was coming. He dreaded it, hoping against hope it wouldn't be who he thought it was, but knowing that there was but one candidate…_

…_She did not disappoint. The tall woman strode towards him, pale as a ghost, dressed as he remembered to this day: a short dark green skirt and open-blouse, showing off her fishnet-clad legs and black-bra'd bosom to maximum effect. Long dark gloves covered her slender hands and forearms…_

…_Almost touching, the face of an angel stared at him with placid curiosity. Long red hair partially covered her blazing green eyes. There was a slight smile on her dark-green lips._

"_Hello, darling," Poison Ivy said seductively. "You've come back to me. I'm so grateful!"_

* * *

**Coming Soon!**


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